Archive of Our Own ^beta

"So, I hear you want Barton for the role," Natasha says nonchalantly. She scratches a note on her notepad with her ridiculously expensive fountain pen and lifts her head like their answer doesn't mean much more than a task to assign herself.

The studio execs look at each other. They are both white men of a certain age. Natasha has to make an effort to tell them apart, so she tags Left Chair and Right Chair onto them as identification for now, and fills in the information she has on either in the appropriate column.

"Yes," Left Chair says.

She does not sigh in relief, or satisfaction. She smiles instead, and knows it is pleasant and polite, because she wills it so.

"Well, in that case, you want Phil Coulson as your primary writer."

Left Chair sends her a penetrating look. "And why is that?" he asks with a hint of distaste, and she knows what they have both just assumed. She lets it pass, because it's a suitable fiction for the time being. But.

"One, because he's a damn fine writer, and I know for a fact that Shield Productions are circling him for a new series. He'll come if I call him, though. And two, because he just knows Barton. He knows his speech patterns, his voice, his cadence. He can write it so when Barton says it, it'll sound like nothing less than a universal truth. Coulson--gets him."

The two execs share another look. 'Gays', Natasha reads in it, and it makes her blood boil, but she fucking wants this show made; and maybe she should have gone straight to Fury with this pitch, but that's a miscalculation she'll have to live with. As long as the show happens.

"Fine," Right Chair says, sounding resigned. "Get him on board, and get going. We want the pilot ready to roll as soon as you can get it shot."

"Yes, sir," Natasha says, and she knows it's just the right mixture of deferential and edgy, because she makes it so.

"We got it," she says into her phone, five minutes later as she walks out of the studio's skyscraper in LA and heads for the airport.

"We got it?" slightly disbelieving, from the other side of the country.

"Yes, Phil. We got it, and I didn't kill them, although as god is my witness I really fucking wanted to. Say you're proud of me."

"I'm so proud of you, Tasha," Phil says warmly. "Are you heading back?"

"Mm, yeah, on my way to LAX now. At least we'll have to work with their New York branch from now on. Small fucking mercies."

"That bad, huh?"

Natasha considers mentioning the execs' assumptions, but. She's not that cruel.

"You don't even know the half of it," she says darkly.

"That's why you're the brains of this operation," Phil teases, and it makes her smile because they both know that's only partly true.

"They want Barton for the lead," she says quietly, once she's settled in the cab and is watching palm trees whiz by her window.

The silence only lasts a beat too long, which she expects, so it's almost natural.

"Okay," Phil says. She doesn't have to have eyes on him to know what his face must look like right now; she can hear all the trepidation and happiness and weariness in his voice loud and clear over the line.

She almost says 'sorry'. But she knows Phil himself isn't sure about whether this is a good or a bad thing, so she doesn't. What she says instead is, "So that means you get Primary after all."

The silence this time is a little longer. "Tasha," Phil starts, but then cuts himself off, sighing. "Yes. Okay. We always knew there was a chance of this happening."

Natasha notes the way he carefully doesn't say 'hope'. She wishes there was something she could do to break this strange impasse between her best friend and the man he is hopelessly in love with. Who just happens to be her other closest friend. (And she hasn't been in the most awkward, agonising position in the middle of this for years, not at all.) Maybe, finally, this is the time to find out if there is the chance for something between them. This show comes at a good time for everyone involved, it seems.

Now they just have to get the team together.

"Right," Phil says, shaking the hesitation that he only seems to fall victim to when it's to do with Clint. "I'll get Stark. You call the big guy."

"Christ," Natasha mutters half to herself. "Okay."

"Hey. It'll be fine," Phil says. She can hear his smile over the line; it soothes the uncharacteristic trepidation inside her, too. Bruce Banner. Well, they need him, partly because he's the best tech there is, partly to counterbalance the other best tech in existence, their special effects engineer slash occasional actor, fucking Tony fucking Stark. Banner's temper is a small price to pay, under the circumstances.

"How do you know?" she asks anyway, only half-joking.

"I don't," Phil says simply. "But it will."

She can only hope he's right.

---

"Hey, what's happening? Hi, oh my god, it's been what, two years? Darcy, babe, you're looking as devastating as ever, how's the girlfriend? Nat! Hi, god, it's so good to see you."

The voice gets closer and closer to Phil's small cubicle of an office, ending up right on the other side of its flimsy wall. Phil stares at his right hand, which is shaking like he just downed three espressos in one breath. He glares at it until it stops, until he can make his heartbeat slow the fuck down and stop choking him. The clench in his gut he can't do a thing about, but at least it won't show on his face -- he hopes. He's so close, oh god, he's so close...

"Hi," Barton says, right behind Phil's left shoulder. Phil's heart tries to stop in his chest; he keeps it going through sheer stubborn willpower.

"Hello, Barton," he says, making himself turn around and look at Clint's--Barton's--face, at the spun gold of his hair, the azure blue of his eyes--stop it. Barton is leaning against the illusion of a doorway the structure creates, strong arms crossed over his chest, bringing his gorgeous shoulders into sharp relief.

"Ready to make me look good?" Barton drawls.

Phil stares at him for a long moment while his brain tries to restart and untangle this loaded question, before Barton's obvious meaning sinks in.

"Your character is pretty cool, won't be hard. Not that you need any help in that department," his mouth finishes for him, and Phil watches, mortified, as Barton's beautifully shaped lips quirk up in the corners. Jesus Christ, he's such an idiot.

"Thanks, I think," Barton says with the tiniest of smirks, while Phil seriously contemplates dropping his head into his hands and hiding his face until Barton goes away. He shrugs instead, knowing his face is flaming, and also knowing he can do fuck-all about it.

"Was there anything else?" he fires back tartly. Barton looks away, throwing his arms theatrically.

"Nope. Just making the rounds."

Of course he is; because that's all Phil merits. He smiles faintly.

"Good to see you again," he says, as lightly as he knows how.

"Yeah. You too," Barton says with a mirrored faint smile filled with hints of warmth that make Phil's entire body come to life. "I'm looking forward to working with you again."

This, at least, Phil can believe. They make a good team, they always have, even with all of Phil's issues, even when Phil had had no choice but to cut their interaction short as much as he could bear -- because his heart is but a small, fragile thing, and no one has ever sunk their tendrils inside as deeply as Barton had managed in just a few short weeks. He feels bad, a little, because it's not Barton's fault that Phil went and fell in love with him like a damned rookie and it took away any chance of them becoming friends. It's not his fault that all Phil seems to write anymore, he writes for him. He doesn't have a clue, and Phil intends to keep it that way.

"You too," Phil says back, but by then Barton has left, walking away with an easy, confident stride that makes Phil sigh like a smitten schoolboy, large, strong hands that Phil would do anything to feel on his body tucked into the pockets of his blue jeans. His leather jacket hugs his shoulders lovingly, shifting with every move, hem caressing the curve of his spectacular ass. Fuck, but Phil's got it bad. To do the show justice, he needs to write for Barton, needs to make the country -- the world -- fall in love with his character, live with his story, ache with his heart as he tries to stay away from the girl he is slowly falling in love with as they solve case after case together. Phil doesn’t know if his sanity is going to survive this.

But he's here now and there's nothing he can do about it but keep calm and bugger on. So he pushes back the rolled-up sleeves of his cotton sweater, rubs bracing hands over his face, and does just that.

---

"You know, if you'd remove that damn stick from your ass, we might just be friends."

Darcy looks at Barton over the severe black frames of her character Drew's hipster glasses, and scoffs.

"Friends?" Drew says. "With you? The weather's toasty down in Hell, don't break out the ice skates just yet. Remember that tiny little detail of you blackmailing me into this? That is the only reason I'm here, so don't try to pretend otherwise."

Barton's character, Aaron, shrugs and pointedly turns away at her rebuff, peering out of the window of the car while Drew pecks away at the keys of her laptop and makes frustrated noises.

"This guy's just an actor, how the hell does he have security like this?" she grumbles, glaring at the house across the road, where Tony Stark's Robert Downey sweet-talks Pepper's Gwyneth Paltrow.

"Proves our theory that he's more than just an actor," Aaron murmurs, narrowing his eyes at the side wall of the enormous, lavish mansion Robert has rented for the month. He leans in, as if it would help him see through the wall. "See if you can bypass the firewall."

"I know, I know, what the hell do you think I'm doing?" Drew grunts irritably, fingers flying. "There's nothing--oh, hey, hello, what's this?"

She lifts her hands and turns the laptop a little, enough that Aaron can see a strange revolving full-body-armour-type contraption that, according to the sensors Drew hacked into, is currently located in Robert's basement.

"Now that's interesting," Aaron manages, just as Robert's head swivels in their direction and his eyes seem to lock on them with growing recognition. "Fuck," Aaron says, flinching back--

"And cut!" Peggy Carter yells. "Next shot we get the wall of the house exploding outwards and the red-and-gold iron man flying out, we'll add that on the green screen. Good job, everybody, that's lunch! Phil, a word?"

Phil obediently lingers behind while the set empties in record time, heading for the food trailer with the single-minded determination of zombies out for brains.

"That was really good," Peggy says when it's just the two of them, facing each other in a couple of on-set chairs. "I love the dynamic those two have. Have you started work on the get-together scene yet? I want to know where they're headed so we can start building up to it and dropping hints about the end-game."

Phil shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, not quite able to hold it.

"I have some ideas," he hedges, but Peggy won't be put off -- she keeps looking right at him, preparing to wait him out if needs be.

"I was kind of thinking that we'd keep it ambiguous all the way through? I don't want this to be predictable, 'of course they will'. Aaron might not get the girl, not if he hasn't earned her heart. I want it to be a conscious choice on her part to go with this, give him a chance, not just surrender to the inevitable 'he's the male lead so he gets the girl'. I was thinking, even Aaron won't know which way it will go, because Drew is different; she's smart, she can hold her own, she definitely does not need him to clear her way, she doesn't have the slightest desire to merely follow in his footsteps, and she's so young, still, so there's that factor for Aaron to agonise over. In fact--" Phil trails off, because Peggy is looking at him with the kind of spark in her eye that spells trouble.

"No, do go on," she says eagerly, grinning with all her teeth. "I like it. I take it you intend to make Aaron go through hell, challenge his preconceptions, make him change for her, let her in, without even knowing if she'll reciprocate? Phil, you are evil and I love you."

Phil ducks his head, feeling his cheeks flush and hoping to hide just how very pleased he is she's seeing it his way.

"I was thinking, in the end, I was thinking Aaron might actually walk away. Rather than pressure her and have things sour between them, he would honestly try to not pursue her. And she wouldn't say anything about him backing off, and he'd assume that's it, it's over. We can keep it really simple and let the music, their faces speak for them. You know Barton has the perfect face for this, and Darcy will make it incredibly authentic, too. And then, maybe the last shot could be a knock on Aaron's front door, and when Aaron opens it, there's Drew, standing on the other side of it in her glasses and silly hat and with her laptop bag over her shoulder, crickets chirping in the background, and she just looks at him, smiles this sort-of-apologetic, sort-of-hopeful smile, and she just says 'Hi.' Cut scene. End of season one."

He stops talking then, not nearly out of words but pretty much out of courage to keep going, looking at the floor while he waits for her verdict. It's a risk, definitely, making the female character self-sufficient, strong; entirely independent, not just on the page. She's going to be so open-minded her head will be practically doorless; she's going to say exactly what she thinks and damn the rest; and she's going to drive Aaron batshit just by being her impish, impulsive, intuitive self. She's going to be as near to pansexual as Phil can get away with making her, and she's going to be brilliant, everything Darcy is always wistfully sighing about when they hang out trash-talking other shows currently on air. She's going to be smarter than Aaron, she's going to have a good, steady income, she will not need him, essentially. She might, however, come to want him anyway, which is where Phil hopes he can take the story, if it'll let him. She is going to challenge Aaron on every level; she is going to open his eyes to the world around them, not just socially, but also showing him, helping him see the miraculous that shares their world with them. They will share these experiences in the most primal of ways, like Phil wishes so badly he could share them with--but no.

He draws back from his thoughts, his hopes and dreams, to find Peggy watching him with this look in her eye, like she sometimes looks at Steve, their DP, when he isn't looking.

"Phil, this is amazing," she says softly, reaching to place a hand on his knee. "This is incredible and unique and I am going to fight to the death to have it. I know Natasha will back me up on this, and so will the rest of the cast -- we are all heartily sick of generic shows that don't have the guts to challenge society's status quo. You, my beautiful boy, you write. Write your heart out like I know you want to. Oh, don't worry. Your secret's safe with me," she adds reassuringly when Phil feels the blood drain from his face. "I mean it, Phil. I will do whatever it takes to make this show happen, and if we don't end up winning everything come awards season, I will be seriously surprised."

Phil nods, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He wants this so badly he can taste it; wants to create another heroine for today, a modern Lizzie Bennet that laughs at the circumstances she finds herself in and does everything in her power to stay herself while finding her way through. She doesn't need a Mr Darcy, but she'll take him if he comes, unafraid of what society might say, listening only to her heart. He wants to write this woman, and he wants to pitch her against Barton's Mr Darcy--or is he more of a Captain Wentworth? He's getting his Jane Austen mixed up again, but the important thing is, he is going to pour his heart and soul into this story, just like Peggy knows he will. Damn it, if he isn't meant to have a happy ending, at least he's going to make damn sure his heroine has one. He is going to give her Clint, Aaron who is so like the Clint Phil knows, the Clint he loves, smart and snarky and irreverent and so devastatingly competent, willing to do the right thing even if it means his own unhappiness. Sure, he can be a bastard sometimes, but he is also warm and caring and prone to random gestures of affection for the people he loves, and--

And the man who holds Phil's heart, whether Phil likes it or not. He is going to give him to Drew if it's the last thing he gets hired to write; and maybe, maybe, it might just help get Clint--Barton out of his damn system and move on.

(Well. Probably not, but. Anything is worth a try at this point.)

---

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in."

Phil stops frantically re-writing storyboards and turns around, a ready smile on his face.

"Bucky Barnes, I never."

"You don't call, you don't write... I'm beginning to think you're trying to send a message."

Phil rolls his eyes. "Jesus, you're such a drama queen. Who did you think got you this gig?"

"Carter," Bucky smirks.

Phil laughs. "True, but I did put in a good word for you."

Bucky scoffs, but comes closer, enfolding Phil in a one-armed hug before slapping him fondly on the shoulder. "How've you been?" he asks easily, making no qualms of looking Phil up and down. "You look tired."

"Thanks," Phil deadpans, and Bucky smirks again. "I'm fine. You know what the start of a new show is like. I've been busy."

"You need to take better care of yourself, man."

"That's rich, coming from you. How's the arm?"

Bucky's face tightens a little, and Phil instantly regrets his bitchiness.

"It's fine," Bucky says shortly. "It's healing up. Should be able to play again in no time."

"God, Buck, I'm sorry," Phil says remorsefully. "I'm a dick."

"Yeah, you are," Bucky agrees, but his face lightens from the despairing look he normally tries to hide. "It really is fine. I'm enjoying the break, picking music for this show. It's gonna be fun matching songs to your babies. You don't get carte blanche from the producer to go nuts on the music choices every day. Natalia must be getting soft."

"Don't let her hear you say that," Phil warns with a wry grin. Bucky rolls his eyes in a way that screams, 'Do I look suicidal to you?', but grins back.

"Wanna talk about the theme music for your boy?" he asks.

Phil's cheerful mood immediately drains, just like that. "Don't," he says, looking away.

Bucky sighs; Phil sees him shake his head sharply out of the corner of his eye. "Christ, I was kidding. And anyway, I meant Aaron, and if you want people to stop looking at you like they're trying to make you out, you gotta stop giving them so much ammunition."

Phil deflates, letting his shoulders slump a little. "Sorry. Again. I'm trying to avoid the whole crew knowing how pathetic I am, this time at least."

"You're not pathetic," Bucky returns immediately, making Phil's chest warm from his unquestioning support. "Wasn't it you who told me it was okay to let yourself love people?"

Phil shrugs. "It is, when they love you back."

Bucky lets out a harsh laugh. "So why the hell were you telling me that?"

"They love you, Bucky. They both do. You're the only person who can't see it."

It's Bucky's turn to look away, a tick in his clenched jaw. "Don't," he says, an echo of Phil in everything, from face to tone.

Phil sighs tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look at the pair of us," he murmurs, mouth quirking through there's no humour in his voice -- only sadness.

Bucky's answering smirk is self-deprecating. "Damn fine specimens of manhood," he answers immediately, sending Phil into peals of startled laughter. Phil sends him a grateful look.

"That we are, my friend," he says, clapping Bucky on his undamaged arm and tugging on it a little, to take them inside. "That we are.

---

"Go," Drew snaps, fingers typing furiously, faster and faster until they're almost a blur over the keys.

"No," Aaron says, doesn't flinch under her glare tempered by suspicious dampness.

"Go," she repeats roughly. "Damn you, Aaron, go. Please. You can still--"

"I'm not going anywhere," Aaron says, so much gentler than her voice. "Get it through your thick head. I'm not leaving you."

Drew lets out a choked sob, fingers flying, flying. "You stubborn bastard," she growls, voice sandpaper-rough, doesn't stop typing even to brush away the tears dripping down her cheeks, falling softly over the laptop keys.

"I trust you," Aaron says simply, coming to slide down the wall next to her until their shoulders touch. "You can do this, and even if you can't, I'm still not leaving you alone."

"God," she groans, bending over her screen until her nose nearly touches it. "You're impossible."

"You're only just realising this now?" he says easily, and her head drops to hide a smile she can't stop.

Phil stops typing and leans back, fighting his own stupid smile at the mental picture of Clint acting what Phil is writing for him. Phil might be typing lines of dialogue and a scant few directions, but his mind's eye follows Clint's every move, every flicker of his eyelid, and paints the scene for him with startling clarity. He knows that, if he had been the one in Drew's position, he would have desperately wanted Clint--Aaron--to hold his hand, only that would interfere with coding the thermonuclear missile launcher to shut down. Reality doesn't stop him from wanting Drew's next line to be, "Hold my hand." He sighs, shaking his head at himself.

"Wow, that's seriously good stuff," Barton says from behind Phil's shoulder. Phil jumps, heart rate tripling, and whirls around.

Barton is actually not even in the cubicle; he's leaning against the entrance again, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket this time, eyes fixed on the screen over Phil's shoulder. Phil doesn't even know how Barton can read the writing from that far back, but evidently he can, because he's got a look of concentration on his face as his eyes flicker over the lines. He hums distractedly, and at one point his mouth twitches, clearly amused.

"I'm not going anywhere," Clint says, trying the line on for size. It comes out exactly like Phil intended, like he knew it would from Barton's mouth -- gentle, reassuring, silently inferring how silly you are for even contemplating it. "Get it through your thick head. I'm not leaving you."

Phil wants to die. This is torture, listening to that tone in Barton's voice and knowing it's not meant for him. Barton's fucking voice, so--so warm, so fond, Phil can't even handle this.

"It's great. I like it. Then again, what's new? Your writing's always brilliant."

"Thanks," Phil croaks, but just like last time, Barton is already gone, nothing but his faint, confusing smile lingering in his wake to torment Phil for the rest of the day.

---

The tuna melt is cold, and the cheese is more congealed than warm and tangy, but Phil eats it anyway, too starved to bother with pretentions. His mind is completely detached from the world, on fire with the next scene he's planning out for this episode, so it takes him a while to realise that Natasha is sitting across from him, scarfing down an enormous burger and looking amused.

"Hi?" Phil tries, and grins at the huff of laughter Natasha smothers. "I've barely seen you since this madness started, what's up with you?"

"Nothin'," she drawls, and they both snort at the private joke. "Sorry I've been incommunicado, this shoot is madness on toast. I keep getting faux-supportive 'how are you but really how's our money' emails from the execs, I've got Peggy Carter raving at me about your writing, I've got Darcy Lewis' damn near worshipful letters exalting everything about her character and Clint's, and I've got Clint doing his standard I'm-too-cool-to-be-impressed-with-Coulson-but-really-I-want-to-have-sex-with-his-brain routine -- you can blush all you like, it's true -- and last week I had an extremely interesting lunch date with Maria Hill."

"Fury's right hand?" Phil looks up, still trying to force down the heat melting his face at Natasha's words.

"The very same."

"What did she want?"

"She wanted to offer us a spot on their network, should we ever want it," Natasha says grimly, biting into her burger with unnecessary viciousness.

Phil frowns, not liking one bit where this is going. "Has she heard something? Is the network going to screw us over?"

Natasha chews, jaw muscles working overtime, before swallowing like she tastes something unpleasant and putting her food down. "Not that I know of, but. If Fury saw fit to send her to meet me--"

She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. Phil can read between the lines, and Nick Fury isn't known as the shrewdest exec in the business for nothing. If he's smelling something fishy, chances are the trawlers aren't far off.

"Fuck," he summarises, dropping the remains of his own sandwich in disgust.

"Pretty much," Natasha agrees.

Phil rubs his face before crossing his arms over the table and dropping his head onto them. "It's Drew, isn't it," he mumbles in despair. "I knew she was too big a risk, I shouldn't have--"

A hand lands onto his head, running slim, sure fingers through his short hair.

"She is the best character I have read in years. The whole cast and crew are thoroughly in love with her. Darcy is like a goddess breathing life into her. She's got incredible chemistry with Aaron. Frankly, I would scrap the entire show before I let Drew die."

Phil doesn't look up, but some of the tension goes out of his back and he slumps further onto the table until it's the only thing keeping him in his chair.

"I don't want us to become another Pushing Daisies," he groans quietly.

"Neither does anyone else. I'm told we're already generating buzz. Fury, for one, does not intend to let us go quietly into the dark, Maria says. He knows what kind of work you're doing here, and we have a great team. Maria as good as told me that if we get dropped by our studio, Fury has his legal team on standby to draw our contracts."

"We should have gone to him first," Phil sighs, sitting upright again and pushing glasses that have slipped back up his nose.

"I had that same thought as I walked out of the damn skyscraper in LA," Natasha confides after a moment of fighting with herself. "But what's done is done. All we can do now is play our role and wait for the cards to fall where they will."

Phil nods, and manages a small smile for her.

"It'll be all right," he says, surprised to find that not all of his confidence is bravado.

Natasha quirks a companionable smile at him. "That's why you're the writer. One of us has to keep believing in happy endings."

"That's a good line," Phil murmurs, distracted, because it is, and a part of his mind is busy conscripting it for the future, when a thought occurs. "Do you think the crew will follow us?" he asks timidly.

Natasha looks at him like he just farted in public. "Of course they will. Phil, the crew is as mad about this show as we are. Carter is frothing at the mouth at the mere thought of stopping; you know Rogers will follow her anywhere she leads, quite aside for his own fondness for the show, and let's be honest about this, Barnes will follow them anywhere in the world. Even Tony will ditch everything he's got lined up and hie after us. And that's before I even get to Darcy and Clint. Those two will follow you like lost puppies the promise of a home."

Phil scoffs, a stupid clench in his chest. Darcy -- maybe, she'll come with him because of Drew, and he respects that, and loves her so much for it; but Clint?

"Tasha, be realistic," he says, possibly a touch too harsh than he would have liked, but. The thought aches in a way that is truly unsettling.

"I am realistic. Darcy is completely in awe of you, and Clint? Phil, whatever else there may or may not be between you, he loves your writing. Always has. Last year, when you were away doing that White House show, he kept turning up at my door and whining at me until I cued it up, and then he had a mental orgasm every time Quaid opened his mouth or Byrne was even in a scene at all. You can't see it, because you're way too close, and I know you're trying to maintain some distance between you, but in this, at least, trust me -- Clint would go anywhere for the chance to work with you."

She sucks in a deep breath when she's done, and Phil is left blinking at her in the weak February sunlight that turns Natasha's hair into vivid red flames. After a long moment of gathering his senses, he tries for, "Did he really--"

"Yes," Natasha says when he loses his courage halfway to asking the question that he knows deep inside will never leave him alone, not if years come to pass. "He did. He likes you more than you think, Phil. I wouldn't write him off just yet."

Phil shakes his head, unwilling to hope too much for something he so desperately wants. Natasha huffs, shaking her head irritably.

"Ugh, whatever. I'm not your friendly neighbourhood matchmaker. You sort your own shit out between yourselves. I'm just saying. He might surprise you."

Peggy's yell of "Come on, get your arses in gear, we still have a show to shoot" saves Phil from having to think of an answer that won't reveal just how sad the thought makes him that, no, this isn't one of his stories. There will be no happy ending for him just because he wants it so much he feels like sobbing with the strength of it.

It doesn't, however, stop him from thinking about what Natasha said for late into the night.

---

For long weeks, it looks like Nick Fury's doom-and-gloom predictions have fallen short. Things go on as normal: Phil writes his heart out, Peggy gleefully terrorises the cast and crew, worries at the actors until they have given her what she wants. They're--happy. As happy and relaxed as they can be about a shoot.

And then the execs order a test screening.

"'Too boyish'," Peggy fumes, looking over the reports of the public's reaction to Drew.

"'What is with her hair'," Darcy reads, and everyone in range has to pile on over her to stop her breaking something in the scorching heat of her temper for the rest of the day.

"'I don't know if it's a cop show or a comedy or a sci fi show or what'," Steve reads, an edge of anger to his usually cheerful voice. "Why can't it be all of those?" he asks plaintively.

"'Aaron is too soft. He doesn't act like a real guy. Is he, like, gay?'" Barton reads, and there is such fury in his eyes when he lifts them and fixes Phil with a look that Phil physically flinches back, away from it. "What utter fucking bullshit is this?! Aaron is an awesome character, jesus, just because he's not trying to strip her on the spot with the force of his stare alone or whatever--"

He throws his arms up and stalks away, leaving Phil staring after him with his heart in his throat and his head full of doubts. Is he really making Aaron too soft? Is it because he himself is gay that he doesn't know how to write straight men anymore? Christ, he thought he was doing well; were they just humouring him? Is he losing his touch?

A hand lands heavily on his shoulder, making his head jerk up from where he'd been staring unseeingly at his feet.

"Stop. Whatever you're thinking, stop that right now," Clint orders, face so close it makes Phil break out in a thin layer of sweat. His own face is flaming, he can feel it. "You can't even for a second think that those bozos know their asses from their elbows. I'll lay you odds that those responses in particular came from the Bible Belt screening. You are a briliant writer, Coulson, and I will personally punch you if you start doubting yourself over this trash. Okay?"

He is leaning in, close enough that his breath huffs gently over Phil's cheek when he talks. He pushes Phil's shoulder just a little, like punctuation, but that's not what makes Phil shake and have to swallow twice before he can get any words out.

"Okay," he mumbles, too busy keeping his hands from lifting to Clint's hips and holding on.

"Well." Clint lets go of Phil's shoulder, which Phil immediately resents, and steps back, clearing his throat. "Good. So long as that's clear."

Feeling daring, Phil smiles at him, wanting so much to show his gratitude, how much Clint's--Barton's--Clint's words mean to him, that he forgets to be nervous and does his best to make sure Clint gets his meaning. Clint blinks a few times, a faint, startled crease between his eyebrows, before he smiles back, this slow, easy, affectionate smile that makes Phil's heart nearly stop.

"He's right," Darcy butts in, wrenching Phil from his connection with Clint's gaze and making him flush all the more as he realises he just stood there, grinning stupidly for close to five minutes. She is vibrating with righteous anger, eyes ablaze, hair flying -- all she's missing is a Grecian toga and a flaming sword to complete the impression. "You are the best damn writer I have ever worked with, and I adore Drew and Aaron, and the whole cast of characters we have here. I would hang out with any of them in a second, not to mention the things I would do to Drew, given half the chance. You're crafting a character that women can be proud to aspire to, Phil. Listen to what Clint is telling you, and don't you dare second-guess yourself."

Phil feels the strange, absurd urge to burst into tears and cling to her. "Thanks, Darce," he croaks.

Clint is watching them, hands tucked into his pockets, a sweet, fond smile on his face that makes Phil's heart flutter so much more than the kiss Darcy presses to his cheek.

Buoyed, Phil beats a hasty retreat to his office, throws out the crumpled mess of reviews he has been obsessing over for much too long, and gets back to work, more determined than ever to crack the stupid execs.

---

The gym looks (and smells) the same as it ever had; the hard seats under him are predictably uncomfortable. It all feels intensely familiar, as does the ache in Phil's chest as he watches his school's basketball team fight and push and claw their way to victory in the inter-city championships. Bobby blocks another attempt to score, and the crowd goes wild around Phil -- of course they do. Bobby is 6'4'', with shoulders that make Phil's mouth dry out just looking at them, firm, muscled arms -- not to mention an extremely attractive brain: he also happens to be the president of the school's Science club and the Debate club.

Really, is anyone surprised that Phil is head over heels gone for this guy?

The final whistle blows, the crowd erupts, the entire team throw themselves on top of their captain (guess who?), shouting their heads off. Phil sits alone on the deserted bleachers, just like always, on the outside looking in as the others celebrate.

The scene transmutes into the party he'd gone to that night, against his better judgement. Oh, no one snubs him; some people are even pleased to see him -- friends, collaborators on the school paper he helps edit, his English class, students from the years below he tutors sometimes. But it seems like he passes through the crowd unseen, undeterred, people melting away from his path, no one bothering to stop him to talk, even say more than just a hello.

The lights go out all of a sudden, amidst screams of excitement, and still no one stops Phil, no one looks interested in going somewhere with him, or even just spending a few minutes making out. He reaches the opposite wall, props his back against it and watches the room full of teenagers have the time of their lives, connect in a way Phil can only dream of, that seems unreachable for him. He sees Bobby not far off, with one of the girls from the Science club wrapped snugly around him, his hand under one of her thighs, urging her closer. It shouldn't ache so much, knowing he's invisible, undesirable, not interesting enough to make anyone bother to get to know him as more than a friend.

Then he looks again, and there is Clint, face tucked close to a nebulous figure's ear, that faint smile of his spreading over the side of his face Phil can see, eyes narrowing in amusement as he looks straight at Phil, who feels his own face fall and twist--

Phil jerks awake, heart beating triple-time, a lump in his throat he can't breathe around no matter how hard he tries. He's close to sobbing, chest heavy and aching, cold sweat drenching the collar of his t-shirt and drying uncomfortably around his neck.

"Fuck," he chokes, and gives in to the inevitable, curls on his side and lets the tears come.

It's all true. That wasn't just a dream his subconsciousness threw up to torture him -- it was a memory, everything but Clint being there when Phil was a teenager desperate for contact, for any kind of connection. He used to think the loneliness would suffocate him, wrap long hands around his neck and squeeze until no air could get past its grip. Now, from the vantage point of thirty-four, he knows it won't kill him.

It would merely make him wish it could, that one morning he just wouldn't wake up to an empty bed and chilly covers. He is so tired of being alone.

He allows himself ten minutes to wallow in shameful self-pity. This is nothing new; he had accepted his lot a long time ago, every time he hoped, tried to forge another kind of connection only to have the other person draw back. Honestly, by the time he turned thirty, it was more of a relief to have the next in a long line of ill-advised crushes walk away before Phil could make even more of a pathetic fool of himself.

He rubs a weary hand over his eyes, wiping away the tears dripping down his cheeks, and gets out of the bitter tangle of sheets. He washes his face, slips his glasses on, and pushes his laptop open with hands that shake only a little. Then he sits down on the small, rickety chair, and loses himself in the only thing that has ever brought him peace: his writing.

---

"We," Steve announces, gathering Peggy to his side, tucked under his arm, "are getting married. We want all of you to be there, so keep an eye on your emails for the invites," he adds a little louder, to be heard over the excited din and the shouts of "Congratulations!" and "You're finally making an honest man out of him, Peggy?" People crowd around, closing guard; it leaves Phil on the sidelines as usual, so he's got a perfect view of the broken, resigned look on Bucky's face, the one he quickly smothers when Steve looks at him, eyes narrowed in concern. Bucky nods at Steve, manages a decent enough approximation (if you aren't Steve, and therefore haven't known him since you were in diapers together) of a happy grin and turns away from Steve's frown. When he slips out a little while later, lost in the general commotion, Phil doesn't even have to think twice about following him. That look on Bucky's face when he'd heard Steve's words, Phil knows that look intimately, has felt it crease his face enough times to recognise the blankness that comes from your heart shutting down, the wave of despair that swamps you, the loss that threatens to rip you apart. Bucky had looked like his world was ending, and Phil, as both someone who is intimately familiar with what that feels like and Bucky's friend, knows what he has to do.

"Come on," he says when he finds Bucky outside the studio's doors, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched, looking out into the distance like he hasn't got the first idea what he's supposed to do next. "We are going to get thoroughly smashed."

Bucky looks at him blankly at first, the kind of lost that breaks Phil's heart to see. "Don't we have work to do?" he says, sandpaper-rough.

Phil scoffs. "It's three o'clock on a Friday and a bombshell has just been dropped. Everyone is going to use it as an excuse to get drunk."

"But we're not going with them?" Bucky hazards, and he doesn't look the least bit interested in the answer, but at least it's a reaction.

"No, Buck. We're not going with them. We are going to go drown our sorrows in the worst dive around as only the two saddest wretches in all the kingdom can."

Bucky's mouth twitches; Phil counts it as progress. Bucky lifts a hand, rubbing over his face hard enough that his stubble rasps audibly across his palm.

"Yeah, okay," he allows, letting his hand drop. "Okay, Phil. Let's go."

Phil slings an arm across his shoulders, tucks him into his side like Steve had held Peggy a few minutes ago. Bucky goes, huddling against his body in a way that makes Phil ache for him.

"Alcohol, huh? That your answer to everything?" Bucky says roughly, as near to clinging to Phil as he gets.

"To this, at least," Phil agrees. He squeezes Bucky's shoulder, nudges him to walking away from the studio holding things that break their hearts on a daily basis, away from their lives of responsible adulthood that seems to consist of doing things that make them miserable--away.

Sometime (a long time) later, Phil wakes up, and immediately regrets that particular life choice. His mouth feels like a desert and tastes like all its inhabitants have chosen to up and die on his tongue. Only that can't be true because the banging in his head requires at least a herd of monkeys, and... yeah, he so lost track of that metaphor, but the effort to wrench it back into making sense again hurts even more.

His memories of last night are hazy. He does recall the vodka, though. So much vodka, and were there body shots involved? Had he really licked the taste of salt off Bucky's collarbone, and sucked the slice of lime from between the lush sweetness of his lips? Had he really--

There's a snore in his ear. It's not loud, more of a snuffle, soft and almost endearing even before he turns around and finds himself held snugly to Bucky's chest, Bucky's arms twisted around him like the appendages of a particularly amorous octopus.

"Buck," he whispers, in deference to his booming head. Bucky shifts a little, but only to bury his head further into Phil's neck, stubble rasping against Phil's sensitive skin until parts of him start taking definite notice despite the general 'stand down' call Phil had sent his entire body the second he realised who was in his bed.

"Bucky," he says again, louder but still gentle. "Come on, hey." He adds a nudge, just in case, because he can't be certain but he suspects that Bucky will feel pretty mortified when he realises he'd been clinging to Phil like this. "Time to wake up."

Bucky groans, but obediently stirs -- only to groan much louder and roll back into his previous position, head trying to burrow under Phil's arm.

"Make it go away," he whispers, without giving out a single clue whether he's talking about the light or the fact that it's morning, or the general suckiness of the reason they'd found themselves here in the first place.

"Wish I could, buddy," Phil says, petting the top of Bucky's (naked!) shoulder awkwardly.

"Ugh," Bucky complains, rolling onto his back, and only avoids landing on his ass on the floor because Phil clutches at his (naked, oh god) back in time.

"Where the fuck are we?" Bucky manages with what looks like supreme effort.

Phil looks around, takes in the tower of books lying haphazardly on the bedside table, the pile of writing pads on the desk, the winking eye of his laptop on standby, and sighs.

"My room, it seems," he admits, pushing himself up on his elbows for a better look. The movement dislodges the sheet clinging stickily to his chest and stomach -- too stickily for just night sweat. He looks down at his naked body, the patches of crusty former liquid on his skin that the sheet uncovers when he pulls it away from his skin in disgust.

"Oh," he says. The first time he's gotten laid in months--years--and he was too drunk to remember it. Typical.

"Shit," Bucky says sheepishly, seeming to agree. "Uh. Sorry?"

Phil gives him a look. "Does it seriously look to you like any one of us was taken advantage of or coerced to be here?"

"Christ," Bucky says, sitting up as well and wiping his chest with an expression on his face that Phil thinks wants to be pissed, but comes across as just desperately sad instead. He's pretty sure he knows what is going through Bucky's head -- after all, the two of them are quite similar, and he knows what thoughts his own mind is trying to torture him with.

But it isn't Clint in his bed. And Phil, Phil certainly isn't tall and broad and very blond, and neither is he of the female persuasion. So. Their morning sucks already, but there's no reason to make it any more miserable by dwelling on things that he can't have.

"You don't remember much, do you?" Bucky says, rubbing his face.

Phil gives the question some consideration. "Not past the eighth shot of cheap vodka you poured down my throat, no. You?"

"Not a damn thing, though I do recall shot number twelve and someone doing a damn fine rendition of It's Witchcraft, you sly dog. Still, we must have been conscious enough to get up here, and unlock the door, and--" he trails off, shooting Phil a sideways look from between his fingers.

"Yeah," Phil agrees, trying to talk his flush back at the resurfacing memories. He always gets vocal when he's drunk, and he doesn't just mean the singing.

Bucky sighs and lists sideways, pressing his shoulder to Phil's. "So. That happened."

Phil nods. He's got nothing he feels the need to add.

"You feel any different?" Bucky asks after a minute of comfortable silence.

Phil wishes, oh how he wishes he did. "Nope," he admits, slumping against Bucky's solid frame.

"Crap," Bucky says conversationally. "Me neither. Still nauseatingly in love with the two of them."

Phil looks at him, then slides an arm around Bucky's dejected shoulders, squeezing his arm gently. Bucky rests his head against Phil's collarbone just for a moment, before he sucks in a deep breath and straightens with purpose.

"Right. Suppose we'd better make ourselves presentable and rejoin the circus. I've got music to write, and you've got everyone's hearts to break with the last episode. We'd better get cracking."

Phil follows him out of the bed, chest swelling with impossible fondness even when Bucky scratches his ass before stepping back into his filthy underwear that looks like it took a load (or two) in the night. He's such a good guy, and Phil wishes so hard that he, at least, gets his happy ending.

They walk out of the hotel together, arms and shoulders brushing companionably. Phil tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, doesn't realise how far down his head is hanging before Bucky stops him with a touch on his arm.

"Hey."

Phil turns, making his face lift into a smile with some effort. Bucky's hand is warm on his arm, fingers present but not gripping -- reassuring. Phil could do with some reassuring right now, after the last twenty-four hours, after all the things that he'd had to accept about himself, how he feels about Clint, how much further he has to go to regain some semblance of equilibrium in his life. Bucky smiles back. It looks about as tight on his face as it feels on Phil's; paradoxically, that makes it a little easier, knowing he isn't the only one so hopelessly in love with a person who doesn't want him.

"It'll be okay," Bucky says quietly. Phil knows no such thing, and Bucky doesn't either, but there's a solemnity in Bucky's eyes that says that for all the crap either of them still has to go through, will be going through for a long time to come, he truly believes that in the end, somehow, it will be okay. Phil hadn't realised how much he'd needed someone to tell him that, to believe it for him when he couldn't trust in this himself, until right this moment.

Bucky seems to realise; his hand flexes on Phil's arm, reeling him in, and before Phil knows what's happening, he is being engulfed in the tightest, most wonderful hug he has received in his adult life. Bucky holds him comfortably, just as he had last night; there is no expectation for anything to come, nothing erotic about the gesture at all, just a friend holding another, giving him courage. Bucky's lips brush against Phil's temple, and a pleasant buzz passes through Phil's chest, making him smile. For all that he is nearly a decade Bucky's senior, he feels comforted in a way that has been missing for a long, long time. Whatever else happens, wherever the two of them end up, Phil will always consider Bucky a friend, bound by shared heartache in a way no nights out for beers can ever manage.

"Thanks," he murmurs, holding Bucky back just as tightly, closing his eyes and letting himself sink into the moment, just this once.

"You're welcome," Bucky says with unforced cheer, mouth curling in an easy smile.

Maybe Bucky's right. Maybe it will be okay. Phil can only hope -- this aching emptiness can't last forever.

---

Next Monday is the day the bell tolls -- because of course it is. Of course the execs choose to pull the plug with just one more episode to go, an episode Phil has some ideas about but nothing solid, nothing that can be shot in the coming week -- the last of the shoot.

Sure, he knows where he wants to take the story. But now that there's potentially no more of the of it to come, that he has to think about an actual ending that ties up all the loose plot threads, Phil is--not precisely stumped, but close. He has to leave the viewers satisfied, has to consider the possibility that they will only have this one season. Yes, Fury will back them up, Phil knows it, but there are no guarantees that the viewers will, that there will be enough people who share their enthusiasm for genre-crunching, rules-bending, girl-gets-the-guy kind of show.

Phil isn't even that upset. He is stuck in that space of zen numbness where his emotions are still trying to work themselves out. He is writing, however, so it can't be that bad. He only starts worrying when he wakes up in the morning and there are no words clamouring in his brain to get out -- or don't start harping at him as he pours his first cup of coffee. He has been sitting there at his desk night after night, burning the midnight oil, barely surfacing during the days, and written -- mortal peril, teamwork, pulling together in the face of extraordinary adversity to save the day -- because, in the end, he still believes in heroes, and that's what his characters are: every hour, every day, standing up for what they believe, not backing down even when they can barely see the light for the darkness.

And then the battle is over, in his head and on the paper, and all that's left is the final act, to get them together; all that's left is giving Drew and Aaron what they most want: each other.

No pressure, then.

All Phil knows is how he wants it to end; that hasn't changed from when he pitched the plot point to Peggy at the start of the shoot. But to get there, he needs to put the two of them through the ache of failure, of nearly losing each other -- first at the hands of the villains and then Aaron's sudden attack of self-sacrifice.

Okay, then.

int: CAVE, dank and dark and predictably villainous.

AARON: (looking around in disdain) I can see you don't take yourself seriously at all.

THUG backhands him across the face. The small MAN in a neat silver-gray suit watches impassively, far back enough that he won't get his expensive patent leather shoes dirty. He shakes his head, holds up a hand, and THUG subsides instantly. AARON feigns nonchalance, pretends he isn't watching them all carefully. MAN walks closer, tilting his head like AARON is a particularly interesting bird hopping around curiously, heedless of the snake lying in wait for it in the tall grass.

MAN: Smart mouth you have. Think you know all the answers, you do.

AARON: Uh. You know that part's been taken for close to thirty years, yeah? Little green furry guy beat you to it; it sucks, I know, but you gotta respect--

THUG backhands him again, hard enough that AARON'S head snaps back and his knees fold, leaving his body swaying off the chains that hold him upright while he shakes his head to throw off the dizzy spell. MAN smiles.

MAN: Ah, true love. You trust your partner; creeping closer even now, she is, to get you out of my evil clutches. I wonder, if you could see inside her head, see what she really thinks of you -- would you still trust her so unreservedly?

SECOND THUG grabs AARON'S head, one arm across his forehead, the other pinning down his arms and holding him in place. AARON thrashes in his hold anyway, throwing his body uselessly around. MAN walks closer and lifts a hand.

AARON: (trying desperately to stall) What, no demands for information? Don't you evil geniuses always want something? Isn't it in the handbook?

MAN: (stops, seems to consider AARON'S words) Well, I did want to know the location of the Man of Iron, but I'm sure I'll find another way to get to him. Maybe your little friend will help me out.

AARON roars in fury and tries to lunge, but MAN presses his palm to the side of his head and AARON freezes in his bonds.

We hear DREW'S voice alone at first; gradually, the scene changes to show DREW crawling through a passage overhead, laptop bag safely secured across her chest. Her mouth is closed, we realise we are only hearing her thoughts.

DREW: Damn that stupid motherfucker, why the fuck did I let him talk me into this, oh, wait, I didn't, the blackmailing shit. I didn't have a choice, did I? Fuck, if he gets me killed by dragging me into this crap, I'm totally gonna zombify and come back to eat his stupid bastard brains for making me feel like this, I've never felt so fucking helpless in my life, god, I hate him--

MAN steps back and AARON sags in his chains, going limp when the connection cuts out.

MAN: (gleeful) How splendid. I never suspected such resentment seethed under that pretty face. Imagine how quickly she will sell you out once she learns your hold on her is gone. Perhaps she will thank me for your death? Ah, well. In any case, I have no use of you any longer--

A GRENADE drops on the floor in the middle of the room, immediately rolling into one of the dark corners. The two THUGS panic and start searching for it frantically; MAN alone looks UP. The camera follows his gaze, cutting through the ceiling to find DREW crouching above the room, nose and mouth covered by a spare t-shirt wrapped around her face. She is staring through the vent at AARON, who hasn't reacted to the noise.

MAN brings his arm up sharply and a KNIFE comes flying out of the sleeve, stabbing through the floor a quarter inch from DREW'S leg. She startles, stifles a shocked whimper, and her fingers twitch on the keyboard of her laptop, pressing ENTER.

The GRENADE clicks open, sending out plumes of gas that quickly fill the room. From DREW'S POV we hear two heavy thumps and one lighter, then a scuffling sound. DREW digs out a red panic button from her pocket, holds it in both hands and presses it, clearly praying for a fast response.

LATER

The cavalry has arrived, several POLICE OFFICERS are picking over the scene while others are leading the two THUGS away in cuffs. The MAN is nowhere to be seen.

AARON sits on the back of an ambulance, an emergency blanket over his shoulders. He stares off into the distance as the medic puts away his tools at AARON'S side.

DREW ducks her head, trying to catch AARON'S eyes, smiles tentatively. AARON looks back at her for a long, long moment, blue eyes boring through hers before he looks away. She can't catch his gaze again, no matter how hard she tries.

LATER

Int: PRECINCT.

DREW lurks outside the entrance as POLICE OFFICERS walk past her, going off shift. They all know her on sight, and not all of them like her since she's made a few of them look like complete idiots over time, but they all nod at her or stop for a quiet word, a pat on the back -- for all her prickliness and attitude, she saved one of their own tonight with her bravery and quick thinking, and they acknowledge that.

AARON comes skulking out at last, makes to go past her after no more than a quick, assessing look, but DREW has had enough and grabs his arm, pulling him to a stop.

DREW: Hey. You--are you pissed at me because I gassed you? Because I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry that I saved your ass in there--

AARON: Drew. I'm not pissed because you gassed me. Wasn't fun, but I'm not a hypocrite. I know what you did.

DREW: (sticks her hands in her pockets) So what is it? Why won't you even look at me, Aaron? If you're not denying I helped you--

AARON: (angry) Yeah. That's exactly it. You helped me, when you shouldn't have been there at all. You almost got yourself killed.

DREW: (waves a hand) Pfft. Maimed a little, maybe; okay, fine, I'll give you that, but nowhere near killed, come on. Anyway, what's with the big brother routine? You've been more than happy to throw me into danger since we met, don't give me the protective asshole act now...

PAUSE

DREW: Wait. Wait, wait, Are you--are you jealous that I saved the day? What, the girl can't be the hero, it's always got to be the guy who struts around like a fat peacock preening among the hens? Well, fuck you, dickhead, I don't fucking owe you anything. In fact, you know what? I'm done. I don't even care anymore. Go to the chief with the hacking proof. Get me barred from MIT and thrown in jail. Ruin my life. Do your worst, if that's how you get to feel better about your sad little existence. I'm fucking done here. I can't believe I thought we were partners. What a joke. You don't do partners, right?

DREW leaves. AARON watches her go, face creasing with misery.

ROOKIE: (from behind AARON) Damn, Sarge, why d'you let her say all that? That's not you at all, that was just mean, what she said, you'd never--

AARON: Kid. I know you mean well, but get this: drop it, right now. She's better off thinking that than sticking around and getting herself killed, because one of us got careless or she got herself into things that are none of her business. She ain't a cop. She's an eighteen-year-old high school student. Now scram, and don't let me hear you mention this to anyone.

ROOKIE leaves reluctantly, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

CHIEF ROMERO: (from behind AARON) Kid's right, Cross. That ain't fair to her, or to you. She's been a pain in my ass sure enough, but she's helped us out when she didn't have to -- and yes, I know about the hacking charge, what, you think I was born yesterday? 'Cause I wasn't, and neither was she. Bet you next month's paycheck that once she stops being pissed and hurt by your expert bullshitting skills, she's gonna be hella upset about the things she said -- and that you didn't tell her any different. Trust me on that, pal, I got one of them at home.

AARON: (still upset, but fighting a smile) Chief, no offence, but you're gay.

CHIEF ROMERO: So what, you think hellcats are restricted by gender now? Get out of here before you make even more of a fool of yourself.

AARON smiles mirthlessly and leaves.

Backpan on the door in AARON'S wake: it swings shut to reveal DREW standing right behind it, eyes a little red from crying, looking gobsmacked, clearly having heard every word. As we watch, her face goes to furious, and then determined as she (and the viewer) watches AARON drive away.

Phil sits back and rubs his sore eyes, blinking blearily at the screen full of words. He hits Ctrl+S snake-fast, in a fit of irrational panic that the whole thing might disappear on him and he'd have to actually shoot himself, and sags back into his chair. He looks around, taking in sights and sounds for what feels like the first time today. His mouth feels parched, so he reaches for his coffee cup only to find it long empty, the last remaining dregs encrusting the bottom and clinging to the sides. He probably really does not need another coffee right now -- but damn it, he wants one, and he's an adult. Caffeine is one of the few grown-up things he still enjoys now that he's officially allowed them. He keeps his 'We Mustn't Panic' Chicken Run mug in his hand as he pushes off his chair and turns to head into the kitchen.

Clint is right outside his cubicle. How Phil missed him getting there, he doesn't have a clue -- but Clint doesn't look to be waiting for him. He is chatting to Bruce instead, shoulders hunched in a little, arms crossed defensively across his chest. Bruce looks to be listening carefully to whatever Clint is saying with a small smile on his face, so Phil isn't immediately concerned. (Much. Not at all, really. Certainly not dying to know what's gone wrong, how he can fix it.)

Phil shakes himself and walks out of his small office (which puts him on the path of interception, completely by accident). Clint looks up as he gets nearer, and Phil braces himself for one of the smiles that Clint has been giving him lately--

--But Clint looks away as soon as he spots him, shifting on his feet. His shoulders pull in even more, and he keeps his head down as Phil passes, doesn't look up even when Bruce calls out a soft hello. A lump of something high-density lodges itself in Phil's gut, makes him keep walking past without pausing like he'd originally intended. Bruce sends him the same small smile he'd been giving Clint; Phil fights to return it as Clint just--stands there and does not acknowledge him at all.

Phil keeps walking, gets his coffee, sips it meditatively and wonders how he's managed to screw up with Barton without even knowing he'd done it. He never seems to get things right around him -- either he pulls as far back as he can get, and it makes Barton seek him out, or he gives in, lets his hopes grow and stretch -- and watches as Barton withdraws back into his shell.

He can't live like this anymore, he realises abruptly as he stares down into his too-sweet, not-hot-enough coffee. Barton is giving him whiplash; worse, he is making Phil feel pathetically needy, begging for scraps of attention when he knows full well he already has everything Barton is willing to give him. This, the way his heart falls, the way the world drains of all color when Barton rejects him yet again -- this is... not healthy. One of these days, Phil is afraid he is going to do something unforgivably stupid, one way or another.

So. This is how it's going to have to be.

He pulls out his phone and, resolutely ignoring his heavy heart, the lump in his throat, he brings up Natasha's number.

"Tasha? I think we need to talk."

---

Int: AARON'S APARTMENT

DREW: (marching past AARON, ignoring the way she has to slide past him since he stubbornly won't move away from blocking the entrance to his apartment) I think we need to talk.

AARON: No, we don't.

DREW: You stupid, ridiculous--man, yes, we do. Why the fuck did you let me say those things to you? Why didn't you defend yourself?

AARON: (shrugs and avoids her eyes) I don't care what you think of me.

DREW: (snorts) That's the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. I got your number, pal. I won't get fooled again.

AARON: (trying not to smile) Last time I checked, you weren't Pete Townshend.

DREW: Don't change the subject. Stop treating me like a fucking kid, goddamn it. I don't need or want your coddling. I've saved your ass how many times? You know I can hold my own. I don't need you to save me from myself, Aaron, damn it. This is my choice, fuck you very much, and fuck it, if it gets me hurt, or killed, I expect you to accept that the only person responsible for that is me, and the asshole who did me in, whom I expect you to fucking destroy in return, FYI, you got that?

AARON: You heard--you eavesdropped on a private conversation, Drew, the fuck is wrong with you?

DREW: You're damn right I did, which I wouldn't have had to, by the way, if you'd deigned to, oh, here's a novel idea: talk to me in the first place. Says a lot about our relationship that I have to resort to that, doesn't it.

AARON: We don't have a relationship.

DREW: Bull-fucking-shit.

AARON: Drew, you're way out of line. We're done here.

DREW: No, we're not--

AARON: Leave.

 

Int: DREW'S BEDROOM

Scene dissolves to show DREW pacing, shaking her head furiously. Then she stops, her face clears.

 

Int: AARON'S APARTMENT

DREW: You need me.

AARON: (scoffing) No, I don't.

 

FADE

 

Int: AARON'S APARTMENT

DREW: I'll find a way to keep helping you even if you shut me out, only it'll get me into ten times the shit I get in now.

AARON: (pauses, pulls out his phone, his eyes holding hers the whole time) Washawski? Yeah, restrict Drew Dennings' access to any and all crime scene information.

DREW snorts and rolls her eyes.

AARON: (glaring at her) Report to me any unauthorised access to our files. Arrest Dennings on sight at all crime scenes for obstructing police work--yeah, even if she's just standing there.

DREW scowls.

 

FADE

 

Int: AARON'S APARTMENT

DREW: I hate you, you bastard, you are ruining my life!

AARON lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed.

 

FADE

 

Int: AARON'S APARTMENT

AARON opens the front door. DREW drops her backpack and throws herself at him, kissing the breath out of him. AARON is clearly shocked, then his arms slowly close on DREW and he tilts his head, kissing her back.

 

FADE

 

Int: DREW'S BEDROOM

Camera on DREW, standing in the middle of the room. Her fingers are pressed to her lips as she smiles dreamily for a long moment. Then her face closes down and she scowls, slashing her arm down in negation, discarding that option.

 

Int: AARON'S APARTMENT

DREW: Look, you can't just push me away. I help you -- you know it, I know it. Please, let me help you. Don't shut me out.

AARON: It's for your own good.

DREW growls and slaps him.

 

Int: DREW'S BEDROOM

DREW has her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. She growls in frustration and pushes her hair back to reveal clear, determined eyes.

DREW: Fuck it. (Grabs her backpack and her coat) Mom? I'm going out!

 

Ext: AARON'S APARTMENT

Night-time. Lights are on in the houses lining the street. Crickets are chirping, the stars are out. The sound of a knock on a door.

A disheveled, hangdog-looking AARON opens his front door to reveal DREW in her usual shirt and jeans, black-frame glasses, hair a halo around her head, curls draping down her shoulders. She clutches at the strap of her bag with one hand, looking up at AARON with a tangle of emotions on her face.

DREW: (hesitantly) Hi.

 

FADE TO BLACK

 

END CREDITS

Phil sits back, flexing his fingers. They crack a little, tiny pops of released tension lost to the usual cacophony of noise between takes. He can hear Tony arguing with Steve about being shot from his good side, and Steve's dry, typically subtle implication that (in a very Steve way) manages to relate both that Tony doesn't have a good side, and that Tony's face is handsome enough to not need to be managed in a way some actors need to. The resulting suspicious silence makes Phil grin, hidden away in the depths of his small space. He's sure going to miss this when he goes.

"Barnes, come here, I need your Steve-speak, what the hell did he just say to me?" Tony grouses. Bucky's amused response trails off as they walk away, in all likelihood towards Peggy's balancing influence. Phil's smile fades with the sound as he turns his thoughts to what happens next.

Well, next he's going to take the scene to Peggy, and have her and Natasha read it overnight, then make whatever revisions the script needs in the morning. And then--then he's going to go back to his cramped hotel room, pack the few things he'd brought with him, and leave.

He has no idea where he'll go. He hasn't had what you might call a real home for years; when he looks back on the past decade, all he finds are the spots where he sat down to pen the latest adventure, a few places where he lingered just for the hell of it, because he had a couple of weeks between jobs and he enjoyed the scenery -- including that once, in Budapest, on a shoot that would end up stealing a lot more than a few hours of sleep and several weeks' worth of hot meals. Sometimes, heartsick in the dead of night, he wonders what might have been if he hadn't taken that job on a whim; if he hadn't been tired of staring at the same sky for close to six months, if he hadn't heard whispers underground of the name Clint Barton and been intrigued. If he could have resisted the siren call of springtime in Hungary, and the chance to work with Natasha again. Curiosity had trampled all over that particular cat.

But how could he have possibly known to brace for the shifting, unpredictable blue of Clint Barton's eyes? How could he have steeled himself to ignore the sound of his laughter? How could he have ever prepared himself to be looked at like that, like someone who mattered, by someone as ridiculously talented as Cl--Barton?

Much like fifteen years ago, he hadn't stood a chance. And much like last time, he has to force himself to let go of his stupid crush, to face the hard truths he can't run from: Clint Barton will never want him, and he wishes it didn't hurt so much to know that.

He wishes it didn't hurt so much to have it mercilessly driven in the next morning, when he comes to the studio to check in with Natasha and Peggy but comes face-to-face with a furious Clint Barton instead, Barton who pierces him with such a look of disdain before stalking past him, slamming into Phil's shoulder as he goes. Phil can't even begin to react, can only stay frozen in place, mind completely numb, self-preservation taking over at last and stopping his brain from processing all the minute details that his writer's eyes have not failed to capture: the creases at the sides of Barton's mouth, like he was clenching his jaw, the flashing ocean blue of his eyes, the way his stare bored right through Phil's gut, pushing out of the other side and taking what feels like half of Phil's internal organs with it. Phil can't even right now. He is fresh out of coping.

He walks into Peggy's office and stands in the middle of the floor, watching Natasha's greeting falter on her lips, the way her face blanks when she sees him and half-rises from the armchair she was curled up in. Peggy drops the scattered pages she was collecting off the coffee table and starts forward to look Phil in the eye, say something urgent that Phil couldn't reproduce if you paid him.

"I need to," he says, and actually stumbles as his knees, horrifyingly, refuse to hold him for a moment.

Natasha hisses something violent-sounding in Russian and takes Phil's arm, dragging him over to the armchair she'd vacated. Phil falls into it without being prompted.

"What did he do?" Natasha demands. "What did Clint do, Phil?"

The words cut through the fog in Phil's mind, and he cringes all over at the memory, the glare in those eyes directed solely at him, seething with accusations Barton hadn't even voiced -- he didn't have to. Clearly, he hates the last scenes, but--god, what is Phil supposed to do here? This is what the story wants, what it calls for from him. He can only take it where it wants to go, when he's in this deep. He'd been dreading being told to rework it, because he honestly doesn't know if he can change it now, if he can stick his hands elbow-deep in its innards and yank them into a different position. He's going to have to, however -- obviously, if Barton hates it, what are the chances the viewers won't? If Barton hates it, then Aaron hates it, and god, Phil is--he has never felt more empty in his life -- out of ideas, out of heart, out of hope.

"He didn't do anything," he replies hollowly, after what feels like an ice age. "He didn't even say anything, even though it's blindingly obvious that he can't stand--it."

He is aware that Peggy and Natasha share a look over his head, but he can't summon the energy to care.

"Oh," Natasha says silkily," you mean the part where he read through the script, got a bit choked up, then threw it on the table, declared it, and I quote, "That's awesome. Exactly what the story needed," and then stormed out?"

Now, Phil looks up, and stares at their identical looks of displeasure with complete lack of understanding.

"I don't get it," he admits at last, thought that's a prime example of stating the obvious.

"Look, Phil," Peggy says, coming to sit on the arm of the chair Phil is miserably huddling in. "I don't have the first idea what has got Barton's knickers in a twist, but it sure bloody isn't the story. You obviously care about these characters deeply, and you're trying so hard to do them justice; it shows in every word. We love it. The cast, when they read it, will love it, too. I can already hear Darcy screaming in my ear, asking where you are so she can give you a big wet kiss."

Peggy hesitates, looking to Natasha again, who nods to her reassuringly.

"But," Peggy adds with a resigned weight to her voice. "We agree with your decision. I--god, Phil, you know I know how difficult it is to care for someone who doesn't want to hear it. And yes, don't try to hide, not from us -- we know how things stand. We know how you feel, and we see the toll it's taking on you. You need a break, you need to get away from this place, this country, for a while, and we aren't heartless. It would be plain cruel to stand in your way -- so we're not going to."

"I've spoken to Hill," Natasha says, picking up the baton smartly. "Fury says there's a spot for you in the new show they're developing. It won't be as primary, but it'll be work, without the weight of a hundred atmospheres on your shoulders -- and it films near Toronto. It'll be a change of scenery, and it will be--not here. There's a flight leaving in three hours -- enough time to get your stuff and make it."

Phil nods, so grateful he can barely speak. The urge to get away is so strong he could sob with it. He needs to be alone so he can fall apart if that's what he needs (and he knows himself. He's heading to that precipice sure enough; at this point it's only a matter of time).

"But what about--" he tries, before Peggy cuts him off by leaning in so she can look him in the eyes.

"They have internet where you're going. If we need anything, we'll call. Christ, Phil, stop being a martyr and take the way out."

Phil nods again, levering himself out of the chair carefully so as not to dislodge Peggy. She rises with him anyway, takes his face in her hands and kisses him on both cheeks before hugging him tightly.

"Go," she whispers. "Be happy."

Phil privately thinks that's a long way off, but he whispers back "Okay," anyway, and leaves it at that.

Natasha grabs him in a tight bear hug for the flimsiest of moments, and then steps back, a militant light in her eyes even as she rubs them.

"Oh, god," Phil groans. "Please don't do whatever you're thinking of doing. It's not his fault."

"He's an asshole," Natasha argues.

Phil sighs and shakes his head tiredly. "Tasha. You can't force yourself to like someone just because your best friend tells you you should. Remember, you're not our friendly neighbourhood matchmaker. Just leave it be. Please?"

"Ugh," Natasha grunts, but nods grudgingly. "Fine."

It's all Phil can ask for.

Irrational as it is -- he knows no one knows he's leaving, he wanted it that way, he should be happy -- Phil still looks back when he's about to walk off to his gate at the airport. He doesn't know why he bothers -- of course there's no one there, no one has come after him (or would have, if they'd known to, and that's fine). This isn't a movie, or a romance novel. The romantic interest isn't going to suddenly realise just how in love he is with the girl and sprint after her. Phil knows this.

He just wishes his heart did, too.

He turns around resolutely and walks further into the depths of the terminal, finds his gate, gets on the plane. It's done. It's over. Time to try like hell to move on. At least the distance, not seeing Barton every day, not hearing his laughter around the corner, or listening for his footsteps as he walks past, ought to help.

---

The Greater Toronto Area is miles away from the hustle and bustle of downtown Washington, where they have been filming when not in the studio. Gorgeous countryside, small picturesque towns – it’s everything Phil might have wished for, if he’d thought about a place where he could go hide away. The people are great: he gets to catch up with Jasper Sitwell, who has the primary writer gig on the show. The two of them have always made a great team, sharp, competent – just the way Phil loves to work. The new DP is a hoot – a Norwegian by the name of Thor that Fury has dug out from somewhere, no one knows exactly but the gossip mill is running especially wild. He has brought in his wife to handle the visual effects – yes, it’s another one of those shows, and Phil doesn’t mind one bit. Hill is producing, which means running the shoot with an iron fist and sending all the interns running terrified, which Phil finds hilarious considering what a geek Hill is at heart. It’ll take just one night out drinking for everyone to work that out – and then this joint is going to really get hopping.

The director is none other than Charles Xavier, which boosts their rep enormously -- even if it means having to put up with his partner, the infamously difficult Erik Lehnsherr. That has never bothered Phil in particular – Lehnsherr might be a grade-A asshole, and as demanding as twenty divas, but he has a magical touch with sound, and his music is out of this world. Phil appreciates a perfectionist at work, so he doesn’t let Lehnsherr’s frequent screaming fits bother him. Besides, Lehnsherr has an inbuilt off-switch, courtesy of a pair of very blue, very kind, very lovely eyes. Phil can sympathise. Phil has personally never had a problem with him -- Lehnsherr appears to appreciate Phil’s professionalism just as much – but Phil can’t say that he doesn’t take often-shamefully sadistic pleasure from watching Lehnsherr take down a peg or five the more cock-sure, arrogant crew members. Hey, he’s only human.

So, really, when the shoot is up and firing on all cylinders, things are good. Phil buries himself in work, escapes from his own head, plunges head-first into other people’s stories, feels for the way the plot twists, revels in following along its meandering paths. This, this is why he loves his job.

It’s the quiet times that are the problem. Too much quiet equals too much space taken up by the kind of thoughts that are just waiting for the tiniest crack in his willpower to slip through. Phil too-often finds himself sitting out on the balcony of his quite lovely hotel room, staring out into the beautifully lush tree line and replaying certain moments over and over again, the good and the bad and the outright breathstopping, fighting the tightness in his chest with everything he’s got. His willpower, so legendary and admired in other areas of his life, fails him shamefully now. He comforts himself with the idea that maybe he just needs to work through this, let it take control, ravage him inside before he can compartmentalize it enough to shove in a distant corner of his mind and learn to live with it, learn to make it a part of himself, learn how to keep it from tearing his life apart with a careless thought.

He doesn’t quite manage to fool himself into believing that it isn’t a fine example of self-indulgent moping at its worst, but. Fuck it. He’s allowed to not be perfectly in control all the damn time. And maybe if he lets it loose now, it’ll be gone out of his system all the faster. He can only hope that happens before it has managed to kill every scrap of hope he has for the future; that, however cliché it might sound, this, too, shall pass.

So he lets himself wallow in his misery, channels it into his work, molds it until it helps him reach into his characters’ heads and tweak, ever-so-slightly, until they shift in tune so imperceptibly that it’s two episodes later that the viewer realizes just what that tiny moment in episode five actually meant. Phil has never produced work this good, and he has never been more miserable. The writer in him can’t help but appreciate the irony, and wonder if perhaps he just isn’t meant to be happy; if happiness will stopper that endless flow of creativity, the drive to fix everything that keeps him pushing, makes him good. He wonders, sometimes, whether the sacrifice isn’t worth it. Phil isn’t especially good at talking about his emotions, but showing, not telling? He’s never had a problem with that.

So it’s fine. He’s barely even thinking about Cl--Barton now, he’s got work, a fantastic story to get stuck in, good people all around him. It could be worse.

Frankly, though, he maybe could do with a little less attention.

It’s not that it’s bad; it’s certainly doing all kinds of good things for his self-confidence, the way a few of the interns keep finding excuses to talk to him, and then sit there in a semicircle around him, listening raptly to him expounding on his own writing process, imparting what bits of advice he has gathered over the years, things he finds useful, things to steer clear of. His mini-tutoring sessions over coffee are proving unexpectedly, flatteringly popular, and it’s kind of refreshing to communicate with kids that are just starting on their path, free of the kind of cynicism that invariably accumulates from years of butting heads with short-sighted studio execs and obstinate directors.

By the end of his first month, his gatherings are attracting students from the nearby college, friends of friends, and input from the other writers, crew members from the other departments. Shield Productions attracts the best of the best in their fields with the lure of a free reign, the authority to do things their way. It’s getting to the point where the local coffee shop where they converge has taken to putting up signs in the windows for their regular slot, and that just attracts more people, locals with lively minds and opinions they want aired (and often argued down, it’s an interesting combination), kids with small pockets and big dreams. Phil welcomes them all, and never turns anyone back, no matter what they have to say – it makes for excellent debate, and he relishes the way the young people open up in the supportive atmosphere to say things and challenge people they might not have been brave enough to, otherwise. Phil even arranges for a Q and A with some of the cast members – stars like James Logan, Scott Summers, Ororo Monroe and Jean Gray. They all enjoy themselves enormously, and actually pester Phil into making their participation a weekly thing after the sessions with the crew.

The result of all this is that, perhaps understandably, if Phil thinks about it objectively (which is hard when he has found himself in the center of all this attention), Phil has become… popular. It’s a distinctly novel feeling; for perhaps the first time in his life, he is being appreciated and sought out for what he knows, what he loves to do, what gets his blood pumping and keeps him going, and that… is a little hard to grasp for the kid who was always standing on the sidelines looking in. But then again, his audience seems to be made of almost exclusively that same kind of kids regardless of their age, kids who could have been him twenty years ago – and people who were those kids, too. So Phil, Phil does his damnedest to show them that things change. That if you love what you do, if you strive for better, aim as high as you can imagine and then some, chances are you’ll end up surrounded by like-minded people who love you for it. After all, isn’t that where he is right now, surprising as it seems? It’s a simple truth, but it’s one of the most important things Phil has to share with these kids, these people: it gets better.

---

It’s at one of those things that he meets Peter Parker.

Peter is just a kid, barely out of high school, but boy, does he have big dreams. He latches onto Thor and won’t let go, but all through the first, the second, the third meet, he keeps sending Phil these looks, half-curious, half-flirtatious, like he’s just now learning how to use those big brown eyes of his to net attention. He’s enthusiastic, and he listens, and he asks smart questions that make people sit up and take notice.

And after his fourth meeting, he sidles up to Phil and looks at him from under his lashes.

“Thank you so much for organizing these things, Mr Coulson. All my friends can’t stop talking about them. It’s a huge opportunity for kids like us to be able to talk to people who have already made it in the movie business.”

Phil feels his cheeks heat against his will, but the guy, he sure knows how to play up his charms.

“Please, call me Phil,” Phil says against his better judgment, and is rewarded with a happy beam spreading over Parker’s face. “And it’s really no trouble. I’m so glad I can help kids like I used to be. I know how much I wish someone had sat me down and told me how I might go about getting to this point. Not that I’m hugely successful or anything—“

“No, but your work, my god, I love it so much! You wrote the script of Heartlines, didn’t you?”

Phil startles, stops putting away his papers and straightens to give Parker his full attention.

“I—yes, I did. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it had started airing already,” he adds, trying to cover up how flustered he suddenly feels. Sure, he’d spoken to Peggy and Natasha a few times, and they’d told him how the studio had decided to run the episodes they filmed despite the already-sealed fate of the show, but he hadn’t thought about it for weeks – and to be told, now, that all he had to do was turn on his TV and he would be treated to Clint Barton’s face, his eyes, his mouth shaping the words Phil had written just for him…

“Oh, yeah, it started three weeks ago, episode three is on tonight! I’m so excited, Aaron is such a badass and so gorgeous and—“ Parker flushes and looks down, like he thinks he’s said too much. Phil just smiles, fighting to keep the bittersweet twist in his chest from showing. He can hardly blame Parker for his taste, can he.

“A-and Drew is such a great character,” Parker gushes, perking up again. His face is still flushed, eyes bright and sparkling. “My friend Gwen is completely in love with her, she won’t stop talking about her. She would lose it when I tell her I’ve met you.”

Phil laughs self-deprecatingly. “You’re too kind, really. I’m delighted you like the show so much. All I wanted was to make someone real, someone young people could relate to, so. Sounds like I’ve done my job, and I couldn’t be happier.”

Parker is staring at him like he hung the moon. Phil doesn’t even know what to do with this much attention. It’s nice, sure, but – god, Parker doesn’t know him. He hasn’t seen Phil at three in the morning, pacing his room and yanking at his hair in frustration when the characters wouldn’t do what he wanted; he hasn’t seen him shovel food in his face as fast as it would go because he’d just thought of something he had to write down. He hasn’t seen Phil zone out in the middle of a conversation, or go four days without showering when a story was riding him hard enough that he didn’t want to risk stopping. He’s not glamorous. He’s not suave and sexy and as smooth as his writing makes him sound. He is awkward around strangers, and blind as a bat without his glasses, and he wears threadbare t-shirts in the summer and soft, comfortable sweaters in the winter because he spends almost his whole time sitting at a desk hunched over his keyboard. He is too pale and his hair is already thinning and he tends to go to ridiculous lengths to avoid looking at himself in a full-length mirror, especially naked. He is not someone who gets to receive the kind of look Parker is giving him right now.

“Have dinner with me,” Parker blurts, and his entire face immediately flames bright red. “Uh, if you want to, that is. I mean, I’d really like to. Um. Talk to you some more. And other things. Things that I—can talk about right now but I don’t think you’d want me to. I want to, though. Do them. With you.”

Phil is, apart from wanting the ground to open up and swallow him, reluctantly impressed. Parker is clearly mortified by what is coming out of his mouth in the babble attack, but he isn’t backing down. He–apparently really wants to do these other things with Phil, for whatever reason that Phil can’t fathom. Parker is standing there, biting his lip, stepping just a touch closer and looking at Phil from under miles of eyelashes that make his eyes look liquid and sultry. He’s young, true, but not so young that Phil would feel weird about at least having coffee with him.

But. But the spectre of Clint Barton still hangs heavily over Phil’s heart, and it just would not be fair to string Parker along when Phil is anything but emotionally available.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea,” Phil tells him gently, genuinely regretful. “It’s not that I don’t like you, or that I don’t think you’re—uh, it’s not going to be fun doing all those things with you, because I’m pretty sure it really, really would. But I’m—there’s—“ he stops, feeling out of breath, pressured, unsure if he can really say this out loud for—actually, maybe for the first time ever. ‘I’m in love with someone else.’ It’s so easy. He opens his mouth—and closes it again, groaning in frustration. “I’m sorry, I just—I’m—“

Fuck. Fuck. He fucking can’t, and how ridiculous is that? And he’d thought he’d been making progress. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Is he destined to always feel this stinging behind his eyes? He doesn’t know if he can live like this.

Parker’s hand closes tentatively on his arm. Phil looks up to find Parker’s face close to his, full of understanding. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

Phil nods miserably. “But we’re not—there isn’t—“

Parker shakes his head, silencing him easily. “Is he straight?”

When Phil says “No,” he looks baffled. “But how can someone know you and not want to be with you?”

Phil can’t help it. He laughs. It’s bitter, and he hates the sound, but it’s just so ridiculous, that he’s getting a pep-talk on his many virtues from a kid almost fifteen years younger than him. But Parker’s face falls, and he starts to move back, and Phil feels like an utter dick.

“No, Peter, I’m sorry,” Phil says quickly, meaning it more than ever before. “I’m not laughing at you, I swear. It’s just—I’m really not as amazing as you think. There are so many people who would love to argue with you about your miscomprehension.”

Peter shakes his head mulishly. “Well, I like you. A lot. And if that other person is idiot enough to pass on you, I’m not going to. The offer still stands. It’s going to keep standing for a long time, I want you to know that.”

Phil ducks his head, flushing again, unable to fight his pleased smile. It’s kind of great, having proof that not everybody finds him a sad old nerd not worth their time.

“Uh, thanks,” he says, looking up and keeping his smile despite the shaking in his gut at letting anyone see that he’s affected. “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

Peter beams at him again. “Just so you know, you ever decide to take me up on it? You won’t regret it, I promise you that much.”

He’s cocky, but Phil looks at him and actually believes him. It’s too bad his heart still belongs to someone else.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Phil says, letting just a hint of flirtation come through in his voice. He’s got to start somewhere; might as well be with someone who isn’t yet biased against him.

---

So they go out for coffee, and Peter tells Phil all about his plans to be a famous photographer when he finishes art school, and about how he isn’t sure if he’s bi or just gay, and how he’d really like it if Phil would let him suck his cock (breathed against the shell of Phil’s ear in the middle of a crowded coffee shop, while Phil desperately tried not to choke on his coffee).That one had been fun. Phil still hasn’t succumbed to Peter’s determined seduction, which actually surprises even him, because he certainly isn’t a saint. He’s just a guy, and he likes sex, so why he doesn’t just say ‘yes’ is beyond him. But there’s clearly something keeping him back, because every time he opens his mouth to say ‘fuck it, let’s fuck,’ it just—doesn’t come out. Peter, to his credit, doesn’t push him, but he does touch Phil’s hand, and lean in to smile invitingly into Phil’s eyes, and send him small, genuine smiles when their eyes meet, and Phil, Phil just hopes it’s only a matter of time, because he won’t get a better chance to actually do something to try to get over Clint Barton.

Peter finds him on a blisteringly hot late June morning as Phil is stewing in his own sweat and desperately trying to finish a scene before ditching his office for the nearest ice box he can find.

“Okay, no,” Peter says, after taking one look at him and returning to his shoulder the bag he’d been about to throw by the door. “You, up, get up. We’re going to the coffee shop and getting the most enormous iced coffees they’ll sell us. No, do not even, come along. Tell me you’re actually getting any work done, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Phil—can’t. It’s not entirely the heat’s fault, though. Last night, he’d been about to fall into bed when Bucky had called, easy and wonderful and a noise for sore ears, if Phil’s honest.

“Steve and Peggy got married today,” he’d said, and Phil had winced and been just about to say, “I’m so sorry, Buck,” when his phone had pinged with a picture message. He’d put Bucky on speaker, opened it up, and stared at three very different, very familiar hands – two left and one right – wearing matching gold bands.

“Oh my god,” Phil had blurted, shocked and utterly delighted. “Oh my god, did you really?!”

“I did,” Bucky had replied smugly. “We did. Come on, you’ve always known it was forever for me. Guess it was the same way for them.”

“I know. Buck, congratulations. I am so happy for you.”

The excited squeak that had come out of Bucky had been ridiculously endearing – and Bucky would probably murder him in cold blood if Phil ever mentioned it to anyone.

“I know, right? Look, I gotta go, the party’s pretty wild over here. I just wanted you to be the first person I called. You’ve been through so much with me, Phi, and I wish you could be here—but I get why you can’t,” he’d added even as Phil had opened his mouth to apologise. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Phil had sighed. “There isn’t, Buck. Thanks, though. Go enjoy your party, give Steve and Peggy my love.”

So there was that. And today Phil feels like something ran him over last night, and then it backed up over him again for good measure. Of course he’s happy for Bucky – but it also drives home just how lonely he feels, even out here, even surrounded by friends.

“Jesus, you okay? You look a bit—“ Peter makes an ‘ugh’ face, and Phil smiles despite himself.

“Just fine,” he promises, but he grabs his wallet and keys and herds Peter out of the door before he can ask any more questions.

The coffee shop is blissfully cool inside, and consequently is crammed full of people seeking refuge from the hell outside.

“Grab that table, will you, I’ll get the drinks,” Peter says easily, pointing to a small table by the far wall that people are just getting up from. Phil thinks about arguing, but Peter had been very adamant from the start that he pull his own weight during their not-dates, so Phil lets him win and makes his way slowly through the crammed space, nodding to locals here and there that he’d come to know pretty well in the past few months. He collapses into the chair facing the room and lets his head hang back a little in relief that his brain no longer feels like it’s trying to boil out of his skull. He cracks his neck, trying to relieve the tension, closing his eyes just for a moment, letting himself slump a little as the wall keeping his teeming thoughts back from overwhelming him in the wake of last night’s revelations cracks and crumbles a little. The three of them would have been so beautiful, and so happy. He kind of feels like a dick, making this about himself, about how much he wishes he weren’t a coward who had missed two of his best friends’ wedding just because he didn’t think he’d be strong enough to leave again.

An enormous plastic cup is placed before him, droplets of condensation sweating down its sides. Peter sits down, and then a wonderfully cool, slightly wet palm is pressed to the back of Phil’s neck, chilled by holding the iced drinks. It feels divine against his overheated skin; Phil feels his face sag in pleasure and a small groan slips from his throat as Peter’s fingers flex against the base of his skull.

“God, you have no idea how sexy you sound right now,” Peter mutters, just loud enough for Phil to catch it when Peter leans into his space a little. Phil feels his mouth twitch, and the familiar rush of blood to his neck. It seems like he’s never going to get used to receiving compliments from gorgeous young men – but considering it’s not going to be an overwhelmingly frequent occurrence, he doesn’t mind too much.

“The things I want to do to you,” Peter adds teasingly, and god, how Phil wishes he felt the same way. It doesn’t, however, look like this is going to change any time soon; Phil should maybe start thinking about how to explain, how to let Peter down gently, because fuck knows it’s not the guy’s fault Phil is stupid over someone else.

“Oh my god, is that Clint Barton?” the girl on the nearby table says, and Phil’s very insides freeze. His gut swoops like he just went into freefall, and his heart starts slamming into his chest. A part of him, the writer part that is always, always watching, notes with a weird kind of detachment how violently his reaction to the mere mention of Barton’s name differs from when Peter had practically been propositioning him. God, Phil isn’t even remotely over him, is he?

He lifts his head slowly, while his pulse feels like it’s going to choke him. It is indeed Clint Barton, standing on the far side of the room next to the door, staring right at him through narrowed eyes.

Phil is very, very dimly aware that Peter’s hand is gone from his neck; that Peter is looking at Barton, and then at him, and then at Barton again.

“Oh,” Peter says, with the air of unrestrained appreciation. Then he says it again, like he isn’t sure other words work anymore, and seriously, Phil sympathises.

Barton stalks up to their table, and Phil wonders if he’s imagining the way Barton’s eyes never leave his. He can feel almost every eye in the room on them; he’s so agitated that he thinks he might throw up.

“Coulson,” Barton growls, looming over Peter, who looks like all his Christmases have come at once. “I need to talk to you.”

Phil swallows the first three intelligent responses (“What?” “Why?” “Really? Me?”) and settles on a surprisingly composed-sounding, “Okay.”

When neither of them move, Barton shifts on his feet, glaring down at Peter. “Alone?” he suggests, and Phil’s traitorous body damn near sits up and begs at that.

“Oh,” Peter says, again, but this time his voice is thick with dawning realization. He grins at Phil, valiantly ignoring the way Barton is trying to skewer him with his gaze, and then the kid actually winks at him. Phil doesn’t know whether to laugh or groan. “I’m just going to,” Peter says, waving a hand, then picks up his backpack and leans in, breathing, “Good luck,” into Phil’s ear before pressing a kiss to his cheek. Phil has to wonder who taught him to antagonize people quite so well.

“Sorry about the coffee,” Phil calls after him, proud of how unconcerned he sounds while his insides are trying to tie themselves up in knots over the hum of Barton’s presence so close to him. Peter turns and blows him a kiss, upon which Barton takes a step between them, like he can cut out Peter’s flirting by merely existing, and that?

That pisses Phil the holy fuck off.

He sends Barton his own glare, snags his coffee from the table and brushes past him, heading for the door, no longer even concerned with the interested looks he’s getting and what looks like phone cameras going off. He is going to be mortified about this tomorrow, but now, now he is just too livid to see straight.

He seethes all the way to his hotel room, not even looking back to see if Barton is following (he is. The itch between Phil’s shoulders is indication enough). He tries to think, tries to plan what to say, but he is too worked up to even manage that, too furious with Barton’s too-presumptuous-by-half show of possessiveness. His pace is fast, but he’s not running. He is just eager to put four walls and a door between the world and them, because fuck this noise, Barton is in for such a telling-off he’ll be lucky if he makes it with his balls intact. Barton wants to talk to him? He can damn well pick up his feet. Phil isn’t the one who flew halfway across the country to track him down to an obscure little coffee shop in an obscure little country town in the middle of Central Canada. Barton can just suck it up and play along.

Doesn’t explain the way Phil’s heartbeat hasn’t slowed down even once during the five-minute stalk towards his hotel room, and not from the punishing pace; or how his palms sweat when he unlocks his door and leaves it open for Barton to follow him through. And then he’s alone. In a hotel room. With Clint Barton in close proximity; Barton who looks pissed, focused and like he’s got something to say – and all Phil can think about is the nice wide bed not ten feet from the door. Shit. Phil isn’t so sure he’s going to survive this, actually.

The door snicks closed behind Barton, and Phil slams his coffee on his desk and turns, shoving his hands behind his back so Barton can’t see how much they’re shaking.

Instead of launching into whatever is so urgent to have prompted all this, Barton looks around the room like he’s cataloguing everything about it, never mind that there's nothing more in it than a bed and a desk and a chest of drawers for Phil’s ratty t-shirts and threadbare jeans. This is not doing anything for Phil’s composure.

Just as he’s ready to snap out a “What?!”, Barton turns back to him and draws his piercing blue eyes all the way down Phil’s body, from head to toe.

“So that kid,” Barton says, like they were in the middle of a damn conversation already. “He seems pretty interested in you.”

Phil rethinks his strategy, removes his hands from behind his back and crosses them over his chest, needing some kind, any kind of barrier between the two of them right now, imagined or not.

“Is that so hard to believe, that anyone could be interested in me?”

He means it to be belligerent, challenging, a fuck-you. He cringes inside when it just comes out lost, and vaguely hurt.

Barton exhales hard, dipping his head and shoving his own hands in the pockets of his jeans. “No, that’s not—fuck, I never say the right thing around you.”

For all the misery Phil has been sunk in because of this guy, he can’t let that stand – it’s just not true.

“That’s not my experience,” he says, and Barton lifts his head, something in his eyes that Phil could swear verges on hopeful. “It’s not your words that are the problem,” he adds, because fuck him, that’s why. Who does he think he is, coming here, acting like—“It’s none of your business, anyway. So what if we were flirting? What’s it to you?”

Barton’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything, just stands there, staring. Phil feels pinned to the spot like a butterfly to a board. He’s not backing down, though. Not until Barton explains himself, Phil doesn’t care how much his heart might be pounding in his chest.

“I know I have no right to expect anything,” Barton says slowly, a strangled edge to his voice. “But I thought—you—the way you acted around me, I hoped—Look, I know I screwed all of this up.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets, then looks like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He puts them behind his back, starts pacing, stops.

“I saw you and Barnes come out of the hotel, after--after,” he says at last, spearing Phil with his gaze again. “I know what happened in there, I’m not stupid, and the way the two of you acted... But I—“ he huffs again in frustration, staring down hard at his feet. “I guess I got the wrong impression about the bigger picture. I thought it was him you were—you were in love with all this time. And it looked like you two had finally got their act together, and the way you wrote, god, those words, I thought it had to be Barnes. That I’d waited too long, left it too late. But then…“

He flings one arm out, like he can encompass everything that happened since, Phil’s leaving, Bucky as-good-as getting married, all of it.

“I was so angry at first,” Barton confesses quietly. “So angry for you, how Barnes just—fucking threw you over, I thought, but then last night, at the wedding… Nat said a few things. And Barnes, he—“ Barton stops and shakes his head, and is that a blush climbing up his neck? Phil feels the bizarre need to shake his head to clear it, because how can this be right? What is Barton even saying?

“I don’t understand,” Phil says, flinching at how broken his voice sounds, because fuck, if he’s misunderstanding this, if Barton is messing with him, Phil doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Barton stares at him narrow-eyed, like he thinks it’s Phil who is messing with him. “Nat said you are in love with me, have been for years, and Barnes, he—well, he looked like he was going to plant one right in my eye when I cornered him, but then he just laughed and told me you deserved me for what an idiot you’d been about this, and I. But then I come here, and I see you with that fucking schoolkid, and I don’t get it anymore. I don’t know if you were just playing me, or—“

He looks away from Phil, at the wall, the floor, anywhere else, and Phil? Phil sees red.

“You fucking sanctimonious asshole,” he hisses, and does not even care when Barton’s head shoots up to look at him, eyes wide with shock. “After everything you put me through, after that speech about believing in myself, and those smiles, and those looks, and then you wouldn’t even look me in the eye, and that morning after you read the script, you looked at me like I was—like you—fuck you, I was supposed to wait for you to change your mind? To fucking pine and dream of you realizing you were in love with me and turning up to sweep me off my feet onto your white horse?! Fuck you, Barton, I deserve more than that. I was trying to get over you, since you obviously had no fucking desire whatsoever to—to be—anything to do with me. I can’t believe your fucking—no, fuck you, get away from me, no—“

His words cut out as he tries to fend off Barton’s arms from closing around him, tries to push his body away from backing Phil into the wall, tries not to fucking cry like a schoolboy at the look on Barton’s face. “I don’t need your fucking pity, I’m fine,” he chokes out, still weakly pushing away at the breadth of Barton’s chest, still trying to hold onto his emotions for dear life. The look on Barton’s face, Phil can’t take this gentleness right now. It’s going to break him clean in two.

“I’m sorry,” Barton whispers achingly, completely ignoring Phil’s feeble attempts to escape and closing strong, sure arms around him, pressing close until Phil’s face is buried in his shoulder and he can finally hide from Barton’s eyes. “God, Phil, I’m so sorry,” he whispers again, sounding choked-up, and he’s not doing anything, he’s just there, holding Phil tight, so tight, the best kind of hug.

“You must hate me,” Barton says quietly, close enough to his ear that his breath tickles the shell and makes Phil shiver and press closer. “I hate me, for making you doubt yourself, feel less than the amazing man you are.”

Phil chokes on a watery laugh, rolling his eyes at himself, at how ridiculous he is. “I don’t hate you, Barton,” he says, resignation half-muffled in the firm muscle of Barton’s shoulder.

“Clint,” Clint corrects gently, in this tone that’s almost begging, and the last of the fight goes out of Phil. He sags into Clint’s arms, letting him take his weight, which Clint does with nary a sigh.

“Clint,” Phil agrees, knowing he’s agreeing to a lot more in that moment, knowing that he just doesn’t have the strength to fight with himself any longer over what he so desperately wants. At the quiet acceptance he knows is in his voice, Clint relaxes against him, too – Phil only realises how much tension had been coiled in his frame when all of it leaches out, until Clint is easy and pliant against him. Phil clings to his back like Clint is the last port in a storm, like he might be lost if he lets go, and judging by the strength of Clint’s grip, he’s not alone in feeling this way.

“I love you,” he whispers, half-hoping that Clint won’t hear him, but god, he’s done. He is in this, so he might as well confirm what Clint already knows. There’s no halfway for him, not in this.

Clint doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t freeze, either, just melts into him all the more. He lifts his head to look at Phil’s face; his eyes are so close that Phil can pick out the grey flecks in them, can watch as they soften and grow half-lidded. His body is so busy reacting to that look that when Clint bends his head and kisses him, at last, at last, all he can do is sigh and close his eyes and let his lips fall open. The kiss is so gentle, so careful, and it undoes Phil in a way that no desperate urgency could have managed. Clint’s lips are soft, like they’re savouring every touch, every second of this, and a vice unwinds from around Phil’s heart, one that had been present for so long it’s a shock to be without it, to stop telling himself ‘no.’

“I was so jealous,” Clint admits when he breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Phil’s, eyes closed. “I thought you wrote the story for Barnes, and it would eat me up inside, saying words I thought you meant for him.”

Phil shakes his head, in wonder at how Clint could not know.

“They were for you,” he tells him, willing Clint to believe he means this, at least. “Every word, they were all for you. I thought I was so obvious; I thought everyone must know how gone I am over you, that I would write an entire character based on you alone.”

Clint looks shellshocked, pulling back a little so he can see Phil better.

“God, I’m such an idiot,” he says wonderingly, and Phil can’t help but laugh at him and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth, because he can. Clint’s eyes refocus on him; he smiles this breathtakingly happy smile, and his head dips, lips pressing to Phil’s again -- Phil thinks it's just because he can, too.

“So you and the sophomore, you weren’t…” Clint asks when they separate again (their mouths, that is. It doesn’t look like they’re letting go of each other any time soon).

Phil rolls his eyes. “He’s a college student, and no, we weren’t, actually. I couldn’t,” he adds, shrugging self-consciously. “Not when I was still so—“ ‘gone on you,’ he doesn’t say, because there’s pathetic and then there’s pathetic, but he thinks Clint gets the picture by the way his hands slide down Phil’s back in an easy caress.

And just like that, Phil’s entire body comes alive with need. He honest-to-god feels dizzy with how fast arousal burns through his blood, sizzles down his nerve endings. Clint has barely touched him, and already it feels like all the air in the room has been sucked out, and someone must have lit a furnace in the corner in the past two minutes because it feels a whole twenty degrees warmer. He doesn’t know what his face must look like, but Clint blinks at him, and his eyes take on a glazed look as he licks his lips. And then he does it again, slides his hand all the way up to the back of Phil’s neck before following the line of Phil’s spine to its base, with a light yet possessive touch that makes Phil fucking shake. Clint looks dazed by how sensitive Phil’s body is – and honestly, it usually isn’t, but god, Clint’s touch feels like it’s hot-wired to Phil’s lizard brain and all he wants is to get closer, get as few layers of clothing as possible between them.

“Jesus,” Clint breathes; his hips jerk forward, making Phil whimper. Clint seems just as surprised as Phil by this, but a moment later an intent look comes over his face and he does it again, entirely deliberately. Phil holds onto him desperately as all the blood in the top half of his body floods south, and god, Clint really can’t mistake how much Phil likes it.

“Christ, babe, you’re so responsive,” Clint chokes out, and Phil decides that this right here is a good enough time for his higher brain functions to check the fuck out, thanks. If he tries to process everything his body is going through as well as Clint calling him ‘babe’ and sounding like Phil is undoing him just by existing, he thinks he might pass out from his brain overheating.

He tries to memorise every second of Clint’s hands burrowing under his clothes and taking them off of him with extreme prejudice, yet all of a sudden he finds himself naked, back pressed to the cool wall, breath sobbing out of his chest while Clint is on his knees before him, removing his shoes and socks and the tangle of jeans and underwear from around his ankles. Clint's shirt is gone, too, and Phil can’t help the covetous, greedy slide of his hands over Clint’s shoulders as they flex with every movement of his arms. Clint shudders against him and presses his lips to the top of Phil’s thigh, the jutting angle of his hipbone, the soft, oversensitive skin of his underbelly. Phil is entirely certain that this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.

“Clint,” he breathes, voice breaking before he’s even past the first syllable. Clint looks up at him, fire in his eyes, lips falling open as Phil’s thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth, teeth flashing as Clint bites it teasingly and then sucks it in, eyes never leaving Phil’s. “Clint, you’re going to kill me,” Phil groans. Clint’s eyes darken so fast it has got to sting; he lets Phil’s thumb slide out with a wet pop, turns his head and wraps his lips right around Phil’s cock, no teasing, no coy licks, just a smooth slide into scorching warmth until Phil feels the flutter of Clint’s throat over his head.

Phil would probably berate himself over how lame he is for promptly coming without even a noise of warning – if he could think at all, at least past the “Yes, god, Clint, fuck, I love you.”

He only realizes he’s said it out loud when Clint’s hands tighten over his hips and he slides sinuously up Phil’s body to kiss him deep and fast and filthy, tasting like he’s Phil’s, and fuck, if Phil hadn’t come sixty seconds ago he would sure have lost it now.

“Sor—“Phil start to say when Clint lets him go, but Clint immediately kisses him again, and again, and through the next two times Phil tries to apologise, until his overwhelmed brain gets the picture. By then Phil is staring down at himself in dismay as his cock thickens and lengthens again, from nothing more than the glide of Clint’s fingers over his chest, the flick of his thumb over a nipple.

“Huh,” he says, and grins as Clint’s shoulders start shaking under his hands. He looks at Clint’s laughing face, only to be kissed breathless again without much preamble.

“I want to fuck you so badly,” Clint admits against his mouth, and swallows the groan this causes. “I do, I just want to turn you around, get you ready with my mouth and slide right inside you until you’re so full of me you’re choking,” he goes on, and fuck, it’s like he knows, he knows exactly what words, especially those words, from his mouth, do to Phil.

“Please,” he begs mindlessly, arching forward and riding the thigh that Clint slips between his legs like he can make this happen just by wanting it this much. Clint groans and darts in, kissing him until Phil doesn’t know what’s up and what’s down, cock and balls rubbing firmly against the top of Clint’s thigh, sliding over the head of Phil’s cock with every other thrust until Phil is whimpering and clutching at him in desperation as he fucks Clint’s mouth with his tongue.

“Right here, against the wall?” Clint growls, voice like ground rubble muffled in the crook of Phil’s neck as he gives him the hickey to end all hickeys.

“Fuck yes,” Phil moans, and goes to turn around so Clint can get on with it. Clint stops him with a warning set of teeth sinking lightly over his collarbone. (If he thinks that’s a deterrent, he can think again, Phil muses a little dizzily.)

“Condom,” Clint gasps against his skin when Phil, feeling bold and desperately turned on, decides that taking Clint’s cock in his hand, feeling the heft of it, the silken smoothness of its skin, is exactly the thing to do to make Clint go faster, damn it.

And then he stills, and feels his face fall, because actually?

“I don’t have any. I just—it never—“ he bites his lip miserably. He wants this so much he’s shaking with it.

Clint hesitates, then looks at Phil beseechingly. The effect is—something else.

“I do,” he says.

“Oh,” Phil says. He doesn’t know how to feel; all the ugly doubts that he’d managed to push back for those blissful minutes with Clint in his arms start clamouring in his ears, the ‘I told you so’-s and ‘How could you have thought he can be yours and yours alone?’ “Okay,” Phil decides, resolutely shoving them back in their box. He’s not doing this. Clint came here, came to him with his heart on his sleeve, and Phil is going to accept that, he is going to trust that until Clint leaves him no choice but to rethink that trust.

Clint, though, Clint shakes his head, reaches up to frame Phil’s face with his hands, push back the hair mussed over Phil’s forehead.

“I just—I just hoped, okay. I wasn’t taking anything for granted, I promise, and I’m not going to take you for granted, not ever. I just hoped you might still—I might still have a chance with you, even though I blew it before.”

“Oh,” Phil says again, heart trying to bust a hole in his chest. He wants to fucking—he wants to kiss Clint stupid, so he does, because he can, because he’s allowed. ‘Take that, stupid doubts,’ he thinks triumphantly, hand fisting in Clint’s hair to drag him closer.

“Fuck me, right now,” he demands when he’s done (for the moment. He is quite certain he is never going to be done with Clint).

Clint groans against his mouth, kisses him again, deep and messy, before turning him around, getting on his knees and repeating the action on other parts of Phil’s anatomy until Phil is nothing more than a gibbering wreck.

“Now, now,” Phil is aware he’s repeating, over and over again, shoving himself back onto Clint’s mouth, knees shaking so badly he doesn’t dare let go of the wall to wrap one hand around his aching cock. Probably for the best. They don’t want a repeat of earlier. Something presses against his entrance, and he is aware of Clint pushing another finger in beside the first, wet with Clint’s spit. They slide in easily, and Phil thinks about crowing “I told you so, now do me,” but then Clint is sliding up his back and there’s the crackle of plastic wrapping close to his ear and all Phil can do is press his burning cheek to the wall and will his knees to hold him as the anticipation racks up another notch.

Another touch on him, and he wants to scream as he realizes it’s fucking fingers again, but they’re wet with something cool and slick this time, and his spine turns to jelly as a knuckle grazes against his prostate almost as an afterthought.

“Clint, goddamn it,” he rasps – and immediately loses what was left of his breath when Clint’s thumbs press his cheeks apart and he is being speared, filled, stretched around the rigid length of Clint’s cock. Clint doesn’t stop until he is all the way in, and god, he was right, Phil feels so full he wants to choke on it, wants that weight to never leave him ever again.

“Yes,” he moans, voice breaking, loud enough that he would be embarrassed if it didn’t bring Clint’s chest plastering itself to his back and Clint’s answering groan of desperation right next to his ear.

“Phil, sweet Jesus,” Clint grits out, then sets his teeth in the muscle of Phil’s shoulder, right next to the sweep of his neck, and bites. Phil’s entire body tightens, so hard it’s possibly painful on Clint’s cock, except that the sound Clint makes tells him not to worry even a little about that.

And then Clint is moving, in and out with punishing strokes that feel fan-fucking-tastic, and-the-Oscar-goes-to good. Phil presses his chest into the wall so he can push his ass out into the air, give Clint the space to fuck him harder, deeper. It feels like he can’t drag enough air into his lungs, and when Clint shifts his hips and nails that spot inside him, Phil feels the sizzle of ‘oh, god, there’ start lodging into his balls, wind him tighter, make him moan like a slut – which he is, for Clint, apparently.

“God, Phil, god,” Clint keeps saying like a chant, like a prayer. “You feel so good, so tight on my cock, god, your ass, your smell, I want to eat you up, I want all of you, all of you, tell me I have you, please.”

“I’m yours, Clint, I was always yours,” Phil babbles, and lets out a whimper of satisfaction when Clint’s arm curls over his chest, keeps him close as he drives himself inside Phil’s body like Phil is his salvation.

“Please, please,” Clint keeps saying, and Phil has no idea what he can do right now, before it comes to him out of nowhere – before he realizes what Aaron would have begged to hear from Drew, once they finally gave in to the tension between them and admitted how fucked up over each other they were.

“You’re the only one,” Phil says, bowing his head and giving himself up, letting Clint have everything. “There is no one else. Just you, always you. Fuck, Clint, you’re my heartline.”

“I love you, I love you,” Clint says over and over again as he finally drives Phil over the edge, as he falls right after him. 'I love you,' pressed into the top of Phil’s spine, the line of his shoulders, his side, his hip where Clint’s fingers dig in and hold him tight, safe. “Please stay with me.”

“Not going anywhere,” Phil promises without hesitation. He can’t imagine any place he’d want to be if Clint wasn’t there with him. “…Except maybe to the bed,” he amends as his knees finally give and Clint grunts as he takes all of his weight.

“Fine, fine, good,” Clint agrees eagerly, pulling out of Phil (Phil misses him immediately) and turning Phil sideways so he can throw an arm around Phil’s waist and drag him the few feet to the bed. Phil falls gratefully into it, with a deep sigh of satisfaction -- at least until he opens one eye to find out why the hell Clint hadn’t joined him, and sees him walking away.

“Hey,” he complains, and doesn’t even care how petulant he sounds.

Clint huffs out a happy laugh and disappears into the bathroom for no more than a minute, during which Phil hears the slap of the full condom into the waste bin and, briefly, the rush of running water before Clint reappears with a damp towel, wiping himself off. Phil’s mouth goes dry at the sight.

“Nngh,” he says intelligently, and Clint grins an entirely too smug grin that Phil—oh, whom is he fooling, he does not even mind.

Clint flops onto the bed next to him, drawing the towel over his body, too, until Phil purrs in pleasure. Then he drops it over the side of the bed and settles with his head on the other end of Phil’s pillow, close enough that Phil can feel him all the way down his front.

“Hi,” Clint says, so impossibly fond that Phil’s heart flops over sappily in his chest.

“Hi,” Phil says back, quite aware what his voice sounds like, shut up, he’s earned it. “So. We’re doing this.”

Clint moves in and kisses his nose, his forehead, his temple.

“I hope so,” he says, and the fact that he still sounds uncertain kind of seals Phil’s fate.

“We’re doing this,” he declares decisively, maybe a touch forceful, but since Clint only grins and throws an arm over him to drag him closer, until they’re pressed together thigh to chest, Phil decides not to worry about it and take the hint already.

“Can I be the one to tell Barnes?” Clint demands, perking up at the thought. Phil maybe loses it a little at the eager look on his face, but he shakes his head once he’s done laughing against Clint’s shoulder.

“I have a better idea,” he says.

He forces himself out of Clint’s arms for long enough to fetch his phone; Clint rolls him right back in place when he returns, and don’t think this show of possessiveness isn’t doing all kinds of things to Phil’s libido. He cues up his camera and shows it to Clint, who shrugs and nods once he gets it. He snuggles into Phil’s side, presses his face to his neck while Phil lifts the phone and grins ridiculously as he snaps a picture. He saves it and, once he’s done staring sappily at the beautifully, heartflutteringly content look on Clint’s face where it rests against the crook of Phil’s neck (which takes a while, let him tell you), sends it to Bucky without comment.

(Years later, the picture hangs at the top of the staircase of their house, where both of them pass it every morning and every night. No matter what their lives throw at them, Phil never stops smiling just as stupidly when he sees it as he had the morning it was taken.)

---

Phil wakes up with his face mashed against the pillow, Clint a hot, alluring weight down the length of his back. It’s still dark outside, but considering they’d collapsed before the sun had even set, about forty-five minutes and another orgasm after the Sending of the Photo (the noise Bucky had made in Phil’s ear when he’d called, dear god), it’s not actually all that surprising. Phil lies there and just basks in the pure joy that is the feel of Clint’s arms holding him close, one of Clint’s legs pushed between Phil’s, his foot tangled with Phil’s ankles, the trusting way in which he unapologetically crowds into Phil's side of the bed. Phil wants to go back to sleep; his brain feels fuzzy, his eyes scratchy – he’s definitely not done sleeping, but he can’t quite succumb to unconsciousness again.

Especially not when he’s got the next chapter of Drew and Aaron’s story clamouring loudly in his head, episode one of Season Two, ambitious and cock-sure as that sounds. They are still far off even the possibility of another season – they’re not even through their first one, but god, has Phil ever been able to stop the words when they’re coming?

And to think that he’d been worried being happy would stifle his creativity, murder his drive. Apparently? That is not even a factor when you’re shacking up with the very source of your inspiration, when you’re the object of his smiles, when his faith in you shines like an intergalactic beacon. You don’t want to disappoint him, and you’ll do practically anything to make him look at you like that again, with pride and pleasure and such love. At least, Phil knows in his very bones that he is never going to stop fighting to earn that look, for all that, wonder of wonders, it’s his to savour anyway.

He’d never, ever, not even in his wildest dreams, dared contemplate such perfect contentment as what bathes him in warm sunshine right now, and all he wants to do is close his eyes and linger with Clint’s touch on his skin, Clint’s breath on the small hairs at his nape.

But—he can’t. The time will come when the words in his head will quieten a little, give him a break – usually in the infinitesimally short time between the end of one story and the start of the next. Right now, though, he thinks he might vibrate clean out of his skin of he doesn’t get his hands on a keyboard this instant.

Clint sighs and splays his hand over Phil’s chest, slides it down to his stomach in a heartmeltingly intimate caress.

“I can hear your brain working from here. Do you need to go?” he rasps close to Phil’s ear, who can’t help his reflexive shiver at the sound of it.

“Sorry,” Phil offers sheepishly. “Just to the desk. I’m not letting you out of my reach any time soon. But I think I got an idea for Season Two of Heartlines.”

Clint hums in interest, and Phil revels in the thrill that Clint sounds patently interested, another universe entirely from past experience of his partners just humouring him.

“Christ, don’t apologise,” Clint says easily, placing a soothing kiss full of promise on the vulnerable back of Phil’s neck. “Go, shoo, write me brilliant words, I want them – almost as much as I want to wrap my mouth around your cock and suck you dry.”

“Fuck,” Phil gasps, voice breaking as all his blood leaves his head. “Clint, Jesus Christ, you can’t say things like that.”

“The fuck I can’t,” Clint argues conversationally. “I don’t make promises I don’t keep.”

And Phil, Phil knows they are talking about so much more than potentially getting each other utterly useless before they have even had breakfast. He turns in Clint’s arms, presses their faces together so their noses almost touch, and watches with his heart exploding in his chest as Clint’s eyes blink open sleepily and fix on Phil’s, midnight blue in the dim light from the street lamps outside, while his mouth curves in the most breathtakingly lovely smile Phil has ever been on the receiving end of.

“I know you, remember?” Clint reminds him gently, voice so low it almost gets lost in the soft shuffle of sheets as he resettles himself. “I know you, and I love everything about you, starting with your ridiculously talented brain and working my way down – no, across the list. Now go write and let me sleep some more, I’m exhausted. Didn’t sleep a wink before the wedding, and if you think I managed to sleep on the flight over here, you’re deluding yourself.”

Phil really has no choice but to kiss him stupid, morning breath and all. He was nervous! About seeing Phil! Oh, his heart, Phil isn’t sure it can take this much happiness.

Eventually, Clint really does kick him out of the bed, and Phil falls into the uncomfortable chair at his work table and promptly loses himself in a world of his own making, to the soundtrack of Clint’s even breathing. He has honestly never felt more at home in his life, in this generically familiar hotel room, the latest in a line of so many others. He could make the whole ‘I guess my home is with him’ connection, but, hell, he’ll let Drew make it for him. It’s not like Clint won’t know what it means when he reads it.

Phil writes, writes, keeps writing as the sun comes up and gilts the room in rosy gold, turns Clint’s smooth skin to burnished bronze. And then he gets distracted for a bit, and distracts Clint in turn, loses himself in his touch and smell and sound and the deep, neverending blue of his eyes.

But that’s okay. He knows the story will be waiting for him later, and tomorrow, and the day after, patiently lingering around the corner, waiting for Phil to stumble onto its trail. And Clint will be with him every step of the way, holding his hand and guiding his footsteps and just being there as Phil discovers world after world of their own.

Well, what do you know? He gets to live his happy ending after all.